jyt  d^^^/^^-^c 

*4   6 . 


SONGS  AND  HYMNS 


FOR 


COMMON  LIFE 


BY 

INCREASE  N,  TARBOX, 


BOSTON : 

PRINTED  FOR    THE  AUTHOR, 

BY  DAVID  CLAPP  &  SON. 

1885. 


Copyright,  1885, 
By  Increase  N.   Tarbox. 


TO    MY    DAUGHTERS, 


SUSIE  WATERS  CARR  AND  MARY  PORTER  RAYMOND, 


IN   MEMORY   OF 


THEIR  BELOVED  MOTHER, 


M191909 


THE  poems  contained  in  this  volume  have 
been  written  in  the  intervals  of  a  somewhat 
busy  life.  They  are  published  now,  not  for 
the  general  market,  but  for  distribution  among 
friends.  Many  of  them  have  appeared,  from 
time  to  time,  during  the  last  thirty-five  years, 
in  the  columns  of  the  Boston  Gongregationalist. 
A  few  have  been  published  in  other  periodicals ; 
while  a  considerable  number  of  them  are  put 
in  type  now  for  the  first  time. 

I.  N.  T. 


INDEX. 


Ancient  Sabbath  School     .         .         .         .  128 

Absalom 185 

Anglo-Saxon  Whittling  Song      .          .          .  193 

Battle  of  the  Wilderness         ....  44 

Bunker  Hill 63 

Bewildered  Prophet 90 

Black  Valley  Railroad         .         .         .         .  106 

.Baptismal  Hymn 127 

Boston-ology 223 

Banishment  of  Cupid 247 

Boston  Yankee  Doodle        ....  249 

Cassar  and  Christ            .         .         .         .         .  42 

Christian  Old  Age 101 

Christmas  Carols  .          ...         143  and  144 

Centennial  Celebration  at  Tolland,  Conn.        .  158 

Church  of  Old  Windsor,  Conn,,  1630-1880  173 

Change  of  the  Moon 212 


YW  INDEX, 

Crinoline  ...  051 

China  and  America         ...  252 

December  21st,  1620-1870  .  73 

Dedication  of  School  House  120 

Dedication  of  Hitchcock  Library  Hall  129 

Dedication  of  a  City  Hall        .  221 

Death  in  our  Home     ...  257 

Evening 30 

Earth's  Wonders         .  47 

Evening  at  Cape  Ann  .  57 

Easter  Hymns    .  .         .  138-142 

First  Thanksgiving,  1621  .  97 

First  Psalm j !  5 

Forefathers'  Day H6 

God ! 

Great  Pan  is  dead  .  .         .         .21 

Great  City  at  Midnight       .         .  .53 

God  in  the  Garden 146 

Golden  Weddings       ....  197-207 

Game  of  Courtesy 248 

House  by  the  Sea 49 

Heaven  is  far  and  Earth  is  near      .         .         .93 

Hymn  for  Peace 117 

Hymns  for  Freedom       .         .         .         154  and  155 
I  dwell  among  mine  own  people  .         .  67 


INDEX.  IX 

Installation  at  Old  South, — Hymn  .         .135 

Jerusalem 28 

Jubilate  Deo  .         .         .         .         .         .157 

Job  IV.  12-17 136 

Jackson  Falls,  N.  H.,  and  Old  Dog  Spring         210 
Kings          .......  39 

Matter  or  Spirit 8 

Mountain  Spring         .....  34 

Midnight  Train      .         .         .         .         .          .70 

Mystery  of  the  Stars  .         .         .         .         100 

My  Little  Playmate Ill 

My  Mother's  Grave   .....         240 

Northeaster 5 

Nellie 37 

New  Settlements 145 

Nocturn 156 

Old  Meeting- House        .         .         .         .         ,32 
Omniscience        .         .         .         .         .         .         122 

Our  Native  Land 123 

Our  Land 126 

Our  Fathers i## 

Open  Fire  ......         244 

Plymouth  and  the  Bay  ,         .         .         .82 

Pilgrim  Father,  ^Reconstructed    ...  84 

Psalm  VIII.  .         ,  134 


X  INDEX. 

Pride  of  Ancestry 230 

Rest  of  Waking 19 

Ripe  for  Heaven 77 

Revolutionary  Tea 214 

Saintly  Women 59 

Snow  Storm 68 

Song  for  May  Day 113 

Safety  of  the  State         .         .         .      '  .         .118 

Sabbath  School  Celebration          .         .         .  121 

Song  for  Freedom 132 

Song  of  the  Redeemed         .         .         .         .  137 

Still  Small  Voice 152 

Silver  Wedding 207 

Socrates  and  the  Hemlock       .         .         .         .232 

Summer  Rest 255 

Toil  and  Rest 51 

Two  Songs 54 

''Tell  About" 91 

They  that  Watch  for  the  Morning       .         .  94 

The  Unknown  Land 96 

Thanksgiving 103 

Time  for  Thanksgiving                                        .  109 

The  Good  Man's  Death      .         .         .         .  119 

Torn  Battle  Flags                                               .  153 

The  Old  Chestnut  Tree      .                  .         .  219 


INDEX.  Xi 

The  River  of  God 237 

"  Thou  Bethlehem "  ....         243 

To  Whom  it  may  Concern      .         .         .         .253 

Visions  of  the  Night  .....  25 

Vanished  Faces     ......       72 

Who  saw  the  Star       .         .         .         .         .  55 

Winter  Night 61 

When  I  first  went  down  to  Yale  .         .         187 

Yale  Songs    .         .         .         .         .         .       147-151 

Yale  College 227 

Zion's  Glory 124 


SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 


GOD. 

THIS  Being,  great  and  high  ; 
This  Name  majestic  sounding  o'er  the  earth : 
Who  thought  this  thought,  gave  this  conception  birth, 

Beneath  the  vaulted  sky? 

Who  dreamed  this  wondrous  dream, 
Of  ONE,  that  binds  all  worlds  about  his  throne,. 
And  claims  dominion  for  Himself  alone, 

Farther  than  light  can  gleam, — 

Hiding  in  realms  of  air, 

Making  the  unknown  heavens  his  shining  home, 
Or  down  th'  abyss,  deeper  than  thought  can  roam, 

Dwelling  in  mystery  there, — 

So  holy,  good  and  just, 
That  the  unfallen  angels,  great  in  might, 
Veil  their  pure  faces  at  the  dazzling  sight, 

And  bow  them  to  the  dust,— 

1 


2  GOD. 

Who  gave  this  thought  its  birth  ? 
Who  by  his  searching  found  out  such  a  God, 
And  sent  the  marvellous  story  far  abroad, 

Over  our  fallen  earth? 

The  deep  and  sounding  sea, 
Rolling  forever  on  its  restless  track, 
From  its  mysterious  caverns  thunders  back — 

This  thought  came  not  from  me. 

No  bird,  on  sweeping  wing, 
Has  traced  its  source  in  all  her  airy  round : 
No  vulture's  eye  the  hidden  place  has  found, 

Or  known  its  secret  spring. 

Old  empires  in  their  might, 

With  kings  in  proud  succession  on  their  thrones, 
Bowed  down  in  awe  to  senseless  stocks  and  stones, 

In  one  long  pagan  night. 

Egypt,  with  all  her  lore, 
Lifting  her  ponderous  pillars  to  the  sky, 
Bent  to  the  ox  in  low  stupidity, 

Worshipped, — and  knew  no  more. 

Beneath  the  eastern  sun, 

Where  Tigris  hastes  to  join  her  sister  stream, 
Assyria  sat  and  dreamed  her  mighty  dream, 

Till  her  full  race  was  run ; 

But  not,  in  all  her  thought, 
Did  God,  the  Unseen  Ruler,  find  a  place ; 
Nebo  and  Bel,  and  all  that  hideous  race, 

Were  the  poor  gods  she  sought. 


GOD. 

Tyrev  with  her  white- winged  fleets, 
Nestled  in  beauty  by  the  Central  sea, 
Where  snowy  Hermon,  rising  grand  and  free, 

Looked  on  her  busy  streets, — 

Worshipped  the  Queen  of  Xight, 
The  foul  Astartc,  with  her  rites  profane, 
Or  bowed  beneath  old  Moloch's  bloody  reign, 

And  fed  his  grim  delight. 

And  Greece,  the  young  and  fair, 
Brightest  of  nations  ;  with  her  keen- eyed  thought, 
In  all  her  subtle  dreamings,  vainly  sought 

This  highest  thought  to  share ; 

Wondering  and  overawed, 

Searching  for  something  which  she  could  not  find, 
Builded  her  altar,  with  bewildered  mind, 

To  one — the  Unknown  God. 

This  Being,  great  and  high ; 
This  Name  majestic  sounding  o'er  the  earth, 
Who  thought  this  thought,  gave  this  conception  birth, 

Beneath  the  vaulted  sky  ? 


"  In  Judah  God  was  known  :  " 
While  yet  the  earth  lay  wrapt  in  pagan  night, 
O'er  these  rough  hills  and  round  fair  Salem's  height, 

A  heavenly  glory  shone. 

"  In  Zion  was  His  place :  " 

With  Israel's  marshalled  hosts  His  name  was  great: 
He  sat  a  Monarch,  throned  in  holy  state, 

Amid  his  chosen  race. 


GOD. 

"  Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  gates  " ! 
The  God,  whose  power  the  highest  heaven  fills, 
Comes  to  His  temple,  built  on  Zion's  hills  ; 

"  The  King  of  glory  waits"  ! 

"  Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  gates ! 
"  And  be  ye  lift,  ye  everlasting  doors  "  ! 
The  Monarch  comes  to  tread  your  hallowed  floors, 

"  The  King  of  Glory  waits"  ! 

"  Who  is  this  King  of  Glory"  ? 
And  heaven  answers,  with  its  tides  of  song, 
"  The  Lord  of  Hosts— the  Lord  in  battle  strong, 

"  He  is  the  King  of  Glory. " 

On  through  the  circling  years, 
While  ancient  empires  hasted  to  decay, 
And  the  broad  lands  in  pagan  darkness  lay, 

Wrapt  in  their  gloomy  fears, — 

This  light  on  Zion  shone : 
It  sparkled  in  her  glancing  mountain  rills, 
It  bathed  in  splendor  Judah's  rugged  hills, 

And  rested  there  alone, — 

Till  the  set  time  was  come : 
Till  angels  sang  our  Great  Messiah's  birth : 
Then  this  great  Name  went  forth  to  fill  the  earth 

And  make  the  world  its  home. 

Whence  did  this  thought  arise  ? 
Guide  us,  ye  sophists,  to  its-  unknown  source  j 
Lead  us  along  to  trace  its  hidden  course, 

Ye  knowing  ones  and  wise. 


THE    NORTH-EASTER. 


This  Being,  great  and  high ; 

This  Name  majestic  sounding  through  the  earth ; 
Who  thought  this  thought,  gave  this  conception  birth, 

Beneath  the  vaulted  sky  ? 


THE  NORTH-EASTER. 


Then  comes  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 

The  storm-wind."— LONGFELLOW. 


EVEN  now  the  heralds  tell  it, 

The  gloomy  omens  say, 
This  mighty  storm- wind,  from  afar, 

Is  on  its  sounding  way. 
There  is  moaning  through  the  forest; 

The  restless  clouds  hang  low ; 
They  scud  along  the  mountain  sides, 

Surcharged  with  wind  and  snow. 

House  well  the  shivering  cattle, 

And  fold  the  bleating  sheep, 
And  guard  the  yawning  crevices, 

A\rhere  icy  currents  creep  : 
Heap  high  the  blazing  hearth- stone, 

And  close  the  shutters  tight, 
The  tempest,  in  its  furious  march, 

Will  break  on  us  to-night. 


THE    NORTH-EASTER. 

Now  gather  round  the  fireside, 

And  watch  its  dreamy  glow ; 
And  hark ! — upon  the  window  pane 

The  rustle  of  the  snow ! 
Mid  the  fast  gathering  darkness, 

Hear  the  strange,  mournful  wail, 
The  wild  song  which  the  tempest  sings, 

The  anthem  of  the  gale. 

O'er  high  and  shaggy  mountains, 

By  village,  field  and  dell ; 
Around  the  scattered  cottages 

Where  lonely  toilers  dwell ; 
Far,  far  away,  this  wailing  song 

Through  all  the  land  is  heard  ; 
And  many  a  fancy  wakes  to-night, 

And  many  a  heart  is  stirred. 

We  see,  en  wrapt  in  vision, 

The  grand  and  awful  form 
Of  ONE,  who  in  the  darkness  hides, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm : 
And  now  He  moves  in  majesty ; 

His  chariot  is  the  cloud, 
And  at  the  tumult  of  his  march, 

The  stoutest  heart  is  bowed. 

But  oh !  the  toiling  mariner, 

Tossed  helpless  on  the  deep  ; 

Drifting  where  mountain  billows  break 
Along  the  rocky  steep. 


THE    NORTH-EASTER. 

In  vain  his  sad,  despairing  cry, 
In  this  tumultuous  hour, 

The  sea  is  roaring  for  its  prey, 
And  ready  to  devour. 


Some  mother  watches  by  the  fire, 

In  cottage,  far  away, 
And  dreaming  of  her  sailor  boy, 

Hums  the  old  cradle  lay : 
Ah,  well  for  her! — she  cannot  hear 

This  far- resounding  roar, 
Nor  see  the  wild  work  going  on 

Along  the  savage  shore. 

God  help  the  lonely  wanderer ! 

Bewildered  in  the  storm ; 
Struggling  along  his  blinded  path 

"With  bowed  and  shivering  form : 
Lost  in  the  howling  darkness, 

How  can  his  heart  be  bold? 
For  who  can  fight  the  winds  of  night, 

Or  stand  against  the  cold? 

We  sit  and  think  of  one  who  sleeps 

In  her  sweet  wood- land  grave, 
And  hears  no  more  the  angry  roar 

Where  earth-born  tempests  rave: 
But  human  hearts  are  poor  and  weak, 

And  feel  a  chilling  dread, 
At  the  wild  uproar  of  the  storm 

Around  her  lonely  bed. 


MATTER   OR    SPIRIT. 

Open  the  door- way  softly, 

And  look  out  on  the  world  : 
See  the  mad  tempest  sweeping  by, 

Its  mighty  wings  unfurled : 
Then  bless  the  bounteous  Giver 

For  the  fireside's  genial  glow ; 
For  the  roof  that  gives  thee  shelter 

From  storm  and  cold  and  snow. 

This  wind  that  raves  so  madly, 

Howling  with  fiendish  will, 
Has  yet  the  artist's  gentle  touch, 

The  sculptor's  cunning  skill : 
And  when  the  morn  comes  breaking, 

O'er  all  the  world  shall  stand 
Pure  forms  of  chiselled  beauty, 

Wrought  by  her  magic  hand. 


MATTER  OR  SPIRIT. 

THEY  tell  me  that  our  modern  lore, 
Sounding  through  nature  to  the  core, 
Transcends  all  wisdom  known  before : 

That  ancient  myth  and  faith  are  dead ; 
That  henceforth,  it  shall  rest  unread 
What  the  old  bards  and  prophets  said. 

They  tell  me,  they  alone  are  wise, 
Who  walk  by  their  own  searching  eyes, 
And  put  no  trust  in  mysteries  : 


MATTER    OR    SPIRIT. 

Who  follow  what  the  mind  can  know, 
In  these  material  fields  below, 
And  let  the  unseen  wonders  go  : 

Who  ply  the  chemist's  subtle  trade, 

And  think,  by  its  most  potent  aid, 

To  tell  how  first  the  worlds  were  made ; 

Or,  skirting  the  primeval  morn, 
How,  from  the  ancient  night  forlorn, 
Out  of  dead  matter,  life  was  born. 


I  urge  the  cravings  of  the  soul, 
Which  mounts  above  this  earthly  pole, 
And  ranges  in  the  boundless  whole ; 

Which  rising  heavenward,  leaps  and  sings, 
Soaring  on  swift  ethereal  wings, 
Beyond  these  low  and  earth-born  things  ; 

Which  moves  in  glory  with  the  stars, 
Far  from  the  tumult  and  the  jars 
Of  Earth,  and  her  perplexing  wars. 

With  such  persuasions  as  I  can, 
I  urge  that  in  the  general  plan 
Nature  is  nothing  without  Man-: 

These  earthly  fields,  so  large  and  fair ; 
The  orbs,  that  move  in  upper  air ; 
The  bodies,  which  our  Spirits  wear ; 


10  MATTER    OR    SPIRIT. 

Are  all  to  higher  ends  designed, 
And  their  great  meaning  only  lind, 
As  handmaids  of  the  deathless  Mind. 

These  arching  heavens  and  rolling  earth, 
Cut  loose  from  souls,  of  godlike  birth, 
With  all  their  pomp,  are  nothing  worth. 


Why  talk  of  souls  ? — they  make  reply, 
Who  knows  of  souls  that  never  die, 
But  pass  immortal  to  the  sky? 

What  is  the  soul? — a  subtle  strain 
Of  music,  issuing  from  the  brain, 
A  joyous  or  a  sad  refrain ; 

This  harp  kind  nature's  touch  may  wake, 

But  who  that  task  will  undertake, 

When  once  its  trembling  strings  shall  break? 

The  body,  with  its  wondrous  whole, 
Wheel  within  wheel,  in  mystic  roll, 
Emits  that  wonder  called  the  soul. 

Nay,  give  this  sweeping  logic,  pause ; 
How  dost  thou  study  Nature's  laws? 
Can  the  effect  control  the  cause? 

The  floating  fragrance,  which  the  flower 
Emits  in  summer's  sunny  hour, 
Does  it  react  with  kingly  power? 


MATTER    OR    SPIRIT.  11 

Can  music,  when  its  notes  are  rung, 
And  once  on  wandering  breezes  flung, 
Control  the  harp  from  which  it  sprung? 

Borne  on  soft  wings,  the  mellow  strain 
Dies  out  amid  the  wind  and  rain ; 
It  goes,  but  comes  not  back  again. 

So,  if  the  soul  its  being  draws 
From  earthly  and  organic  laws, 
Still  flowing  outward  from  its  cause, 

As  light  conies  streaming  from  the  sun, 
Or  brooklets  from  the  mountains  run ; 
How  are  its  works  of  wonder  done? 

The  soul  sits  sovereign  on  a  throne : 
It  has  an  empire  all  its  own, 
Where,  by  its  will,  it  rules  alone. 

In  busy  day,  and  silent  night, 
It  grapples,  with  a  giant's  might, 
The  august  problems  of  the  right. 

The  soul  may  sing  with  angel  choirs, 
Even  while  the  quivering  frame  expires, 
En  wrapt  in  raging  martyr- fires. 

It  bends  the  body  to  its  will, 
Bids  the  wild  rebel  lusts,  be  still ; 
Bids  the  whole  man  its  tasks  fulfil. 


12  MATTER   OR    SPIRIT. 

It  sets  itself  what  task  it  please, 

To  weigh  the  stars,  or  sound  the  seas, 

And  the  poor  brain  minds  its  decrees. 

Is  this  the  efflux  of  a  brain, 
Dropping  like  falling  drops  of  rain, 
Or  as  the  wheat- stalk  sheds  the  grain? 


But  the  old  voice  comes  back  to  me  : 
Tell,  if  thou  hast  the  power  to  see, 
How  in  the  acorn  dwells  the  tree? 

Around  thy  pathway,  every  day, 
Ten  thousand  organisms  play, 
Each  in  its  own  mysterious  way. 

Unfold  that  strange  and  subtle  power, 
Which  works  in  silence,  hour  by  hour, 
To  weave  the  splendor  of  the  flower. 

How  are  those  golden  fruits  begun, 
Which,  when  the  summer  days  are  done, 
Hang  mellow  in  the  autumn  sun  ? 

Or  can  thy  daring  thought  aspire, 
To  track  that  darting  throb  of  fire, 
Which  leaps  along  the  electric  wire  ? 

Then  by  what  wisdom  art  thou  taught, 

When  sense,  and  nerve,  and  brain  have  wrought, 

To  prove  the  product  is  not  thought? 


MATTER    OR    SPIRIT.  13 

Nay,  nay,  this  logic  does  not  suit : 
We  nourish  Nature,  at  the  root, 
And  wait,  in  patience,  for  the  fruit. 

We  set  our  chosen  tree  with  care, 
To  catch  the  sun,  the  rain,  the  air, 
And  bide  what  fruitage  it  shall  bear. 

So  now,  to  make  your  logic  plain, 

Go  feed  your  child  with  milk  and  grain, 

And  wait  the  efflux  of  the  brain. 

Leave  what  you  call  the  soul,  alone : 
Tis  a  resultant,  all  unknown, 
Until  the  wonder  shall  be  grown. 

Keep  the  young  nursling  well  apart 

From  books  and  every  learned  art, 

And  see  what  thoughts  from  flesh  will  start. 

Go  now,  all  free  and  unconfined, 
And  by  this  food  of  earthly  kind, 
Build  us  a  Newton's  towering  mind. 

You  dare  not  follow  by  your  rule ; 
You  put  the  unseen  soul  to  school, 
Or  let  the  child  grow  up  a  fool. 

Since  earth  was  born,  or  time  began, 
None  ever  acted  on  the  plan 
That  the  frail  body  was  the  man. 


14  MATTER    OR    SPIRIT. 

Sages,  from  age  to  age,  have  wrought 
Upon  an  unseen  soul,  and  sought 
How  best  to  wake  its  latent  thought. 

For  wrapt  in  slumbering  infancy, 
All  ready  to  take  wings  and  fly 
Its  wondrous  intuitions  lie. 

Thoughts  which  no  sense  could  e'er  impart, 
And  strange  emotions  of  the  heart 
Out  of  this  hidden  world  shall  start. 

Its  subtle  food  wastes  not  away, 
But  while  all  earthly  stores  decay 
Its  garners  grow  from  day  to  day. 

All  treasured  wisdom  of  the  past, 
All  that  the  ages  have  amassed, 
Becomes  its  heritage  at  last. 

But  if  you  wish — call  man  a  brute : 
Pray  tell  us  now  what  wondrous  fruit 
Will  spring  and  grow  from  such  a  root  ? 

Suppose  you  victor  in  this  chase : 
For  you  and  me,  how  stands  the  case? 
And  what  good  cometh  to  the  race? 

You  tell  us  that  you  seek  for  light, 
That  day  is  better  than  the  night, 
That  safety  always  dwells  with  right. 


MATTER    OR    SPIRIT.  15 

You  search  for  truth,  what  way  you  can, 
For  truth,  in  nature's  boundless  plan, 
Will  work  the  glory  of  the  man. 

Fair  words — but  words  for  shame  and  tears, 
If  life,  with  all  its  hopes  and  fears, 
Ends  with  these  transitory  years. 

Yea  what  is  truth  ?— go  ask  the  flocks, 
That  sleep  amid  the  hillside  rocks  : 
Go  ask  the  dull  contented  ox ; 

Truth  is  for  them,  as  well  as  you, 
If,  when  the  earthly  life  is  through, 
Dark  night  forever  shuts  the  view. 

O  prate  not  with  these  hollow  sounds  ; 
Your  words  are  only  jingling  rounds,      ' 
If  man  leaps  not  these  mortal  bounds. 

There  is  no  truth— there  is  no  right : 
And  night  is  day,  and  day  is  night, 
If  from  beyond  there  comes  no  light. 

Yea,  bind  my  conscience,  if  you  can, 
Upon  this  low  material  plan  ; 
What  law  or  rule  am  I  to  scan  ? 

If  I  do  right — I  meet  the  curse ; 
If  I  do  wrong,  'tis  hardly  worse ; 
The  payman  holds  an  empty  purse. 


16  MATTER   OR   SPIRIT. 

Come  let  us  eat,  while  blood  runs  high, 
And  drink,  as  the  swift  moments  fly, 
For  on  the  morrow  we  shall  die. 

Yea,  let  us  haste  to  seize  our  prey, 
In  the  dark  night,  when  best  we  may, 
And  hide  us  in  our  dens  by  day. 

And  from  the  conscience,  let  us  clear 

That  idle  rubbish  of  a  fear 

Lest  some  great  judgment- day  be  near. 

Why  should  we  walk  beneath  that  dread, 
While  the  fierce  lion  makes  his  bed 
In  peace— if  only  he  be  fed  ? 


O  man !  abate  this  foolish  pride : 
Look  up,  the  starry  heavens  are  wide, 
And  mystery  dwells  on  every  side. 

Small  reach  has  all  thy  boasted  lore : 
If  false— how  poor  and  mean  the  store ! 
If  true — still  meaner  than  before ! 

Why  walk  abroad  in  pomp  and  show? 
We  see  how  far  your  search  can  go  ; 
We  know  how  little  you  can  know. 

That  ancient  Book,  which  you  despise, 

Grows  doubly  precious  in  our  eyes, 

The  more  these  low- browed  systems  rise. 


MATTER   OR   SPIRIT.  17 

'Tis  a  dark  corner  where  you  dwell, 

Like  some  old  hermit  in  his  cell, 

With  head  bowed  down,  his  beads  to  tell. 

'Tis  a  broad  universe  of  light 
The  Bible  opens  to  our  sight, 
Where  winds  are  free,  and  stars  are  bright. 

We  boast  in  what  that  record  saith, 
That  Man  is  God's  immortal  breath, 
Born  for  the  years  that  know  no  death. 

We  joy  in  David's  lofty  page, 
Still  sounding  on  from  age  to  age, 
Though  kings  combine,  and  heathen  rage ; 

In  rapt  Isaiah's  piercing  ken, 

Which  saw  the  coming  ages,  when 

God's  kingdom  should  come  down  to  men. 

And  our  poor  sinning,  suffering  race, 
Still  has  in  God  its  hiding-place, 
And  wears  a  glory  on  its  face. 

Leave  the  poor  pilgrim,  when  he  dies, 
The  sweet  hope  that  his  soul  shall  rise 
To  join  the  armies  of  the  skies  ; 

That  when  the  dust  returns  to  dust, 
The  mortal  shall  give  back  its  trust, 
To  go  and  dwell  among  the  just ; 
2 


18  MATTER   OR   SPIRIT. 

That  friends,  long  parted,  shall  await 
His  coming  at  the  heavenly  gate, 
And  set  him  with  the  good  and  great. 

In  these  rough  pathways,  while  we  plod, 
Let  us  believe  the  Son  of  God 
Along  these  earthly  ways  has  trod ; 

That  He  from  highest  heaven  came  down, 
With  love,  unchecked  by  earthly  frown, 
Onr  manhood  with  his  own  to  crown. 

Let  us  believe  that  Jesus  died 
To  take  away  our  sin  and  pride, 
And  set  us  with  the  sanctified ; 

That  on  the  morning  of  that  day, 
"When  the  great  stone  was  rolled  away, 
The  grave  was  thwarted  of  its  prey ; 

That  from  the  mountain's  holy  height, 
He  vanished  from  our  mortal  sight, 
And  hid  himself  in  heaven's  own  light. 

Call  this  delusion,  if  you  will ; 
It  fills  a  place,  earth  cannot  fill, 
And  sheds  o'er  man  a  glory  still. 

Rise  from  the  dust  and  walk  abroad ; 
Bow  down,  with  wonder  over-awed, 
And  ask  for  wisdom  from  your  God. 


THE   REST   OF   AVAKING.  19 


THE   REST  OF  WAKING. 

I  WANDERED  helpless  in  the  land  of  sleep, 

In  a  wild  tangled  wilderness  of  dreaming, 
Where  toiling  hard  some  beaten  path  to  keep, 

All  hope  went  out  in  vague  and  fitful  gleaming ; 
It  was  a  dark,  strange,  phantom  land  of  fear, 

A  land  whose  sights  and  sounds  were  full  of  sorrow, 
Each  wandering  voice  was  hateful  to  the  ear, 

And  no  fixed  guiding  light  the  soul  could  borrow, 

All  toil  was  nought — in  vain  each  laboring  groan, 

In  vain  all  art  and  skill  and  bold  endeavor, 
Condemned  like  Sisyphus  to  roll  .the  stone, 

Which  slipped  the  grasp,  and  still  rolled  back  forever : 
As  some  poor  hare,  caught  in  the  hunter's  net, 

Frenzied  with  fear,  now  struggling,  now  despairing, 
Finds  with  each  strain  the  coil  more  firmly  set, 

Such  was  the  sum  of  all  my  toilsome  daring. 

And  demons  foul,  in  every  hideous  form, 

Thronged  round  me,  half  in  twilight  shadows  hiding, 
Creatures,  that  find  their  pastime  in  the  storm, 

Like  sea-birds  on  the  gloomy  tempest  riding. 
But  such  wild  slumber  must,  perforce,  have  end ; 

Upon  this  dark  a  dawn  must  needs  come  breaking ; 
Some  swelling  horror  proves  the  sleeper's  friend, 

By  sharp  excess  of  agony  awaking. 


20  THE   REST   OF   WAKING. 

What  blissful  rest  to  waken  from  such  sleep, 

From  this  long  war  of  strange  chaotic  dreaming, 
And  find  a  midnight  stillness  calm  and  deep, 

And  the  soft  moonlight  through  the  casement  stream 
ing; 
To  hear  no  discord  moving  on  the  air ; 

The  full- orbed  moon  in  peaceful  splendor  riding ; 
To  see  the  stars  shine  down  on  landscapes  fair, 

And  know  that  God's  strong  hand  the  world  is  guid 
ing! 

0  night  so  calm,  so  beautiful  and  still ! 

O  skies  so  deep  and  blue  where  stars  are  twinkling ! 
No  voice  or  sound  is  heard,  save  from  yon  hill 

The  pebbly  brook  sends  out  its  silvery  tinkling. 
Luxurious  rest ! — to  sit  and  dream  and  gaze, 

And  slake  the  spirit  at  this  fount  of  healing ; 
The  earth  enrobed  in  moonlight's  magic  haze, 

That  dreamy  veil,  half- hiding,  half- revealing. 

And  when  death's  sleep  has  sealed  our  weary  eyes, 

And  on  the  vision  Heaven's  glad  morn  is  breaking, 
When  all  the  unknown  wonders  of  the  skies 

Burst  on  the  soul  from  earth-born  dreams  awaking, 
Will  fairer  worlds  in  holier  beauty  drest, 

Will  softer  landscapes  on  the  sight  come  beaming, 
Than  this  calm  scene  of  stillness  and  of  rest, 

To  one  who  wakes  from  wild  tumultuous  dreaming  ? 


GREAT   PAN   IS   DEAD,  21 


GREAT  PAN  IS  DEAD. 
I. 

IN  dim  and  shadowy  ages  long  gone  by, 

This  sad  and  moaning  cry 
Went  o'er  the  sunny  Grecian  lands  : 
By  hill  and  dell  and  ocean  sands, 
Through  many  a  flowery  vale, 
Echoed  the  lowly  wail ; 

The  mountain  winds  took  up  the  tearful  tale ; 
The  shepherds  ran,  the  mournful  news  to  tell, 
And  maidens  left  their  pitchers  at  the  well : 
On,  on  the  message  sped, 
Great  Pan  is  dead ! 

II. 

This  was  Arcadia's  rural  god : 
And  in  her  mountain  cots,  the  faith  was  sweet, 
That  Pan  along  her  rocky  pathways  trod, 
And  made  her  whispering  woods  his  fond  retreat. 
It  pleased  the  shepherd  fancy  day  by  day, 
That  Pan  looked  on  to  see  the  young  lambs  play 
To  watch  the  white  flocks  on  the  grassy  glade, 
Or  safely  sleeping  in  the  noontide  shade : 
To  him  the  shepherds  piped  their  songs, 
Told  him  their  loves,  and  griefs,  and  wrongs  ; 
And  blushing  maidens,  without  fear, 
Whispered  their  hopes  and  sorrows  in  his  ear : 
And  now  the  glory  of  the  earth  has  fled, 
Great  Pan  is  dead ! 


a  GREAT   PAN    IS    DEAD. 

III. 

These  were  but  simple  children  of  the  sun, 

Living  their  roving  life  among  the  hills, 
Watching  the  stars  their  nightly  circuits  run, 

Tracking  the  wild  paths  of  the  mountain  rills  : 
Little  they  knew  of  all  that  lay  behind 

Those  rocky  heights  that  girded  in  their  land ; 
How  little  of  that  One  Eternal  Mind 

Who  holds  the  earth  and  stars  in  his  right  hand. 
Pan  was  to  them  the  wonder  of  the  skies ; 

He  wove  the  robes  of  beauty  round  the  earth ; 
Of  him  they  talked  with  shining,  happy  eyes, 

Their  god  of  festive  joy  and  song  and  mirth : 
And  now  they  sit  bowed  down  in  grief  and  dread, 
Great  Pan  is  dead ! 

IV. 

Great  Pan  is  dead ! 

In  low  and  mournful  converse  still  they  said, 
And  the  whole  earth  sounds  hollow  to  our  tread  : 

How  can  the  silly  lambkins  play  ? 
How  can  the  birds  pour  forth  their  morning  lay, 
To  usher  in  another  weary  day  ? 

Our  oaten  reeds  are  laid  aside, 

The  fields  have  lost  their  flowery  pride, 
And  all  is  loneliness,  since  Pan  has  died. 
We  sleep  and  wake,  we  wake  and  sleep, 

What  is  the  fruit  of  all  our  toil  ? 
Slowly  the  years  around  us  creep, 

And  death  stands  waiting  for  his  spoil : 
Our  days  are  filled  with  fear  and  care  and  strife, 
There  is  no  charm  to  sweeten  human  life : 


GREAT   PAN   IS   DEAD.  23 

Our  dull  and  dismal  rounds  we  tread ; 
But  the  bright  heavens  have  lost  their  ancient  light ; 
O'er  all  the  earth  falls  down  a  withering  blight ; 
Great  Pan  is  dead ! 

V. 

The  rolling  centuries  move  across  the  stage, 
And  we  are  children  of  a  later  age. 
The  same  sun  gives  us  light, 
The  same  stars  sparkle  in  the  heavenly  height, 
The  same  fair  moon  makes  beautiful  our  night ; 

The  olden  thoughts  are  still  at  play : 
We  walk  beneath  the  same  mysterious  skies, 
And  know  that  death  is  watching  for  his  prey, 
While  we  gaze  onward  with  inquiring  eyes  : 

We  have  no  might  or  power 
Against  the  forces  that  around  us  roll ; 
God  is  our  strength — our  everlasting  tower, 
The  only  refuge  for  the  weary  soul. 

VI. 

But  hark ! — a  strange,  strange  voice, 
Sounding  abroad  from  Learning's  ancient  halls, 
An  atheist  voice — which  boldly  to  us  calls, 

There  is  no  God— and  let  the  earth  rejoice : 
The  old  beliefs  have  had  their  little  day, 
And  now  let  wisdom  hold  her  cheerful  sway. 

Lend  your  inquiring  glance : 
Come  see  the  star- dust  in  its  mystic  dance; 
See  the  great  planets  form  and  wheel,  by  chance. 
The  only  god  that  guides  their  course, 

And  speeds  them  on  their  burning  way, 
Is  that  impersonated  force, 


24  GREAT   PAN   IS   DEAD. 

Which  asks  no  worship — will  not  hear  you  pray. 

Search  the  primeval  morn  ; 
See  how  all  life  from  death  was  born ; 

And  how,  through  woe  and  pain, 
All  life  goes  back  to  death  again. 
"What!  do  you  sit  with  sad  and  drooping  head? 
That  Hebrew  God  whom  you  have  feared,  is  dead. 
There  is  no  God — so  doff  your  robes  of  sadness, 
And  let  your  days  resound  with  joy  and  gladness. 

VII. 

Vainly  these  hollow  accents  fall ; 
The  great,  round  world  stops  not  to  heed  this  call : 
Whatever  sea  we  sound, 
Whatever  land  be  trod, 
In  all  the  earth,  no  atheist  race  is  found ; 

Humanity's  full  heart  cries  out  for  God. 
We  shall  not  lose  those,  rapt  and  lofty  songs,        [young, 
Which  bards  and  prophets  sang  when  time  was 
Their  inmost  thought  to  the  whole  earth  belongs, 
And  their  high  strains  shall  never  be  unsung. 
By  Conscience  and  her  haunting  fears  ; 
By  Faith's  great  hope  of  after  bliss, 
By  all  the  inner  spirit  hears 

Of  the  eternal  fitnesses, 
We  shall  not  take  these  painted  shells, 
In  which  no  living  creature  dwells. 
These  mocking  sounds  upon  the  ear  may  roll, 
But  cannot  cheat  the  longings  of  the  soul. 
The  glory  fades  along  the  starry  sky ; 

The  beauty  dies  from  earthly  landscape  fair ; 
No  splendor  lights  the  unseen  realms  on  high 
Except  an  Ever-Living  God  be  there. 


VISIONS   OF   THE   NIGHT.  25 


VISIONS  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


"  In  thoughts  from  the  visions  of  the  night,  when  deep  sleep 
falleth  on  men." 


IN  the  still  realm  of  dreams, 
Folded  in  sleep,  beneath  the  midnight  shades, 
The  Past — as  all  the  weary  Present  fades — 

Rises  in  fitful  gleams. 

The  far  off  years  are  back : 
Departed  forms,  long  gone  from  mortal  sight, 
Fresh  with  their  olden  life,  and  sparkling  light, 

Glide  in  on  unseen  track. 

The  mists  are  rolled  away : 
With  open  vision,  face  to  face  we  stand : 
We  hear  the  voices, — grasp  the  friendly  hand 

Of  some  long- vanished  day. 

Strange  mystery  of  the  mind ! 
These  whisperings  of  sleep,  unknown,  unsought, 
Bring  back  hid  treasures,  which  the  waking  thought 

Searches  in  vain  to  find. 

When  in  the  glare  of  day, 

We  strain  our  gaze  to  reach  those  distant  years, 
How  dim  with  shadows  all  the  scene  appears ! 

How  soon  it  melts  away ! 


26  VISIONS    OF    THE   NIGHT. 

But  dreams  revive  the  dead : 
No  longer  do  they  come  to  us  from  far ; 
No  change  has  passed — we  see  them  as  they  are, 

Life,  light  upon  their  head. 

The  maiden,  whom  we  loved, 
Comes  forth  to  meet  us  at  her  father's  door, 
Waking  the  blissful  thoughts,  with  which,  of  yore, 

Our  inmost  souls  were  moved. 

The  old  emotions  burn, 
Beneath  the  ashes  of  extinguished  fires  ; 
Love's  tender,  pure  and  passionate  desires 

Flame  from  their  buried  urn. 

The  wan  and  weary  years, 

When  we  went  sorrowing  for  the  loved  and  lost ; 
The  long  and  waking  nights,  when  anguish -tost, 

We  wet  our  couch  with  tears  ; 

These  are  but  things  of  air : 
Our  life  is  fresh  as  in  its  dewy  prime ; 
We  heed  no  change, — we  know  no  lapse  of  time ; 

We  banish  every  care. 


The  darling  whom  we  left, 
With  bleeding  hearts,  in  her  low,  silent  bed, 
Among  the  small  and  great — the  countless  dead — 

These  many  years  has  slept. 

The  seasons  come  and  go : 

Around  her  grave  the  flowers  of  summer  bloom, 
And  the  wild  storms  of  winter  wrap  her  tomb, 

In  their  white  robes  of  snow. 


VISIONS    OF    THE   NIGHT.  27 

But  now  she  comes  once  more : 
We  hear  her  joyous  prattle  in  the  hall ; 
We  join  her  frolic,  answer  back  her  call, 

Through  the  half- open  door. 

Her  sunny  ringlets  wave, 
As  she  goes  bounding  in  her  wild  delight ; 
Our  hearts  go  out  rejoicing  at  the  sight ; 

We  know  no  death,  no  grave. 

When  age  has  dimmed  the  eye ; 
When  earth  no  more  makes  music  in  our  ears, 
These  golden  visions  of  departed  years 

In  dreams  go  flashing  by. 

If  Sleep,  with  noiseless  hand, 
Can  open  thus  the  barred  and  rusted  gates  ; 
If  the  forgotten  Past  obedient  waits 
And  comes  at  her  command ; 

If,  from  their  silent  halls, 

These  slumbering  memories,  wakened  by  her  spell, 
Bursting  the  shadowy  confines  where  they  dwell, 

Come  flocking  when  she  calls  ; 

Oh  Death !  what  may  not  be, 
When  earth  and  sense  are  but  forgotten  things : 
When,  at  thy  touch,  we  rise  on  angel  wings, 

And  are  forever  free  ? 


28  JERUSALEM. 


JERUSALEM. 

THY  queenly  name,  Jerusalem ! 

Goes  journeying  down  the  years, 
Still  wearing  on  its  front  a  crown 

Of  glory  and  of  tears  : 
The  songs  that  sounded  on  thy  hills, 

When  Adam's  race  was  young, 
Those  lofty  hymns  to  Israel's  God 

Shall  never  be  unsung. 

Around  thy  walls  old  empires  prowled, 

Like  hungry  beasts  of  prey ; 
Or  hovering  on  thy  mountain  paths, 

In  cunning  ambush  lay : 
From  age  to  age  thy  captive  sons 

Went  forth  in  weeping  bands, 
To  toil  beneath  the  bloody  rod, 

In  lonely  tyrant  lands. 

Those  empires  now  are  ground  to  dust ; 

While  thine  undying  race 
Still  finds  in  God — its  father's  God — 

Some  secret  hiding-place : 
The  seed  of  Abraham  is  not  lost ; 

That  tribe,  of  wondrous  birth, 
Still  wanders  as  a  scattered  host 

In  all  the  lands  of  earth. 


JERUSALEM.  29 

Thy  Temple,  O  Jerusalem ! 

On  Zion's  lordly  height, 
Has  shed  on  nations,  near  and  far, 

A  strange  and  holy  light : 
The  watchman  on  thy  towers  beheld 

The  glad  unnumbered  throngs — 
The  gathering  tribes — that  filled  thy  courts 

With  their  great  festal  songs. 

From'year  to  year,  from  age  to  age, 

The  long  processions  flowed 
Through  all  thy  vales,  and  o'er  thy  hills, 

To  Zion's  blest  abode ; 
Their  white  tents  glistened  on  the  slopes, 

While  they,  with  one  accord, 
Told  the  old  legends  o'er,  and  sung 

High  praises  to  the  Lord. 

Along  thy  streets,  Jerusalem ! 

The  Man  of  Sorrows  trod ; 
And  thou  did'st  nail  upon  the  cross 

The  loving  Son  of  God : 
That  record  of  thy  sin  and  shame. 

Was  washed  in  thine  own  blood, 
When  War  and  Storm  swept  o'er  thy  walls, 

A  wild  devouring  flood. 

.-     •* 

But  over  all  thy  shame  and  guilt, 

Thy  stubbornness  and  pride, 
The  works  which  thou  hast  wrought  for  God 

Shall  evermore  abide : 


30  EVENING. 

Thy  name  shall  still  go  sounding  on 
To  every  race  and  clime ; 

A  glorious  and  immortal  name, 
That  feels  no  touch  of  time. 

Jerusalem !  thine  ancient  grace 

Has  gone  beyond  the  sky, 
To  image  forth  that  city  fair, 

The  saintly  home  on  high. 
We  read  the  prophet's  burning  words, 

And  wait  the  mandate,  when 
The  New  Jerusalem  shall  come 

From  heaven,  down  to  men. 


EVENING. 

GENTLY  the  dew  falls  on  the  grass, 
The  winds  are  hushed  to  rest, 

And  softly  sinks  the  crescent  moon 
Adown  the  quiet  west. 

I  sit  upon  the  summer  hills, 
Far  from  the  noisy  throng, 

And  hear  the  modest  night-bird  sing 
Her  low  and  plaintive  song. 

The  little  streamlets,  bright  and  clear, 

Go  singing  on  their  way, 
While  countless  insect  voices  weave 

Their  never-ending  lay. 


EVENING.  31 

0  God,  in  such  an  hour  as  this, 

How  yearns  the  soul  to  know 
The  mysteries  of  the  heavens  above 
And  of  the  earth  below ! 

An  atom  in  the  boundless  whole, 
A  speck  upon  the  air, 

1  seem  as  one  engulfed  and  lost, 

Without  a  Father's  care. 

My  life  I  draw,  I  know  not  how, 

From  the  mysterious  past ; 
Before  me  stretches  all  unknown 

A  future  strange  and  vast. 

What  part  have  I  in  this  wide  realm  ? 

What  place  have  I  to  fill? 
Or  can  the  smallest  issue  hang 

Upon  my  wavering  will  ? 

Yet  folded  in  these  shades  of  night, 

My  busy  thoughts  arise, 
To  range  afar  the  fields  of  earth, 

And  wander  through  the  skies. 

Is  there  a  hand  that  reaches  down 

From  out  this  vast  unknown? 
Is  there  a  love  that  beckons  me 

To  the  eternal  throne? 

I  ask  the  silent  stars  above, 

As  men  have  asked  of  old, 
No  voice  comes  from  them,  as  they  look 

On  mountains  still  and  cold. 


32  THE    OLD    MEETING-HOUSE. 

The  entrance  of  Thy  Word,  O  God ! 

Alone  can  break  this  night, 
And  shed  o'er  all  the  way  I  go 

The  clear  and  living  light. 

By  faith,  I  take  that  blessed  Word, 

And  follow  at  its  call ; 
The  God  who  made  the  heavens  and  earth, 

Can  see  and  know  them  all. 


THE  OLD  MEETING-HOUSE. 

ON  the  height  of  a  lonely  hill 
Its  rusty  old  form  it  uprears, 
Standing  in  solitude,  where  it  has  stood 

Through  the  storms  of  a  hundred  years. 

The  simple  dwellers  around, 
Like  the  tribes  of  old,  could  say, 
"  Come,  let  us  go  up  to  the  house  of  the  Lord, 
Let  us  tread  in  His  courts  to-day." 

It  meets  the  first  rays  of  the  morn, 
While  the  valleys  still  sleep  in  the  shade, 
The  glories  of  sunset  play  round  its  walls, 
And  it  shines  as  with  sapphires  inlaid. 

In  the  dark  and  stormy  nights, 
When  the  tempests  sweep  over  the  hill, 
It  creaks  in  the  blast,  and  wild,  wild  songs 
Its  desolate  corridors  fill. 


THE    OLD    MEETING-HOUSE.  33 

But  it  stands  in  its  ancient  strength, 
It  can  bear  the  hurricane's  shock, 
It  was  built  to  endure,  and  its  pillars  rest 
On  the  firm  and  primitive  rock. 

The  traveller  sees  it  afar, 
On  his  rough  and  winding  way  ,- 
The  husbandman  sees  it,  resting  from  toil, 
In  the  heats  of  the  summer  dav. 

Around  it  the  multitudes  sleep, 
Who  of  old  sought  its  altars  in  prayer, 
A  great  congregation,  they  rest  from  their  toils, 
Unmoved  by  earth's  tumult  and  care. 

On  headstones  dim  and  decayed, 
We  spell  out  the  names  of  the  dead, 
And  over  their  dust  returned  to  the  dust, 
In  reverent  silence  tread. 

O,  many  the  thoughts  of  the  heart, 
As  we  stand  by  this  temple  of  God, 
And  think  of  the  worshippers,  vanished  and  gone, 
Who  up  to  its  courts  had  trod !. 

They  came  in  the  joy  of  their  souls, 
Or  they  came  with  their  burdens  to  bear, 
In  the  sunlight  of  youth,  in  the  evening  of  age, 
In  hope,  or  in  grief  and  despair. 

O,  strong  is  the  tie  that  entwines  ! 
And  subtle  the  mystical  chord  [sins, 

That  binds  human  souls,  with  their  sorrows  and 

To  the  altar  and  house  of  the  Lord ! 
3 


34  THE   MOUNTAIN   SPUING. 

Then  peace  to  the  church  on  the  hill ! 
Where  its  rusty  old  form  it  uprears, 
Let  it  stand  in  its  loneliness,  where  it  has  stood 
Through  the  storms  of  a  hundred  years ! 


THE  MOUNTAIN  SPRING. 

THEUE  are  no  pathways  like  those  olden  ranges, 

Where,  in  our  youth,  with  careless  feet  we  strayed ; 
There  are  no  waters  now,  so  clear  and  sparkling, 

As  the  old  streams  along  whose  shores  we  played ; 
And  as  the  years  come  darkly  gathering  round  us. 

And  life's  high  noon  descends  to  shadowy  night, 
Home  of  our  childhood !  how  the  picture  rises, 

In  dreams  and  waking  visions,  on  the  sight ! 

I  see  a  land  of  stern  and  shaggy  uplands, 

With  running  brooks,  and  valleys  rich  in  green, 
Broad  hillside  pastures,  rough,  but  sweet  and  verdant, 

Where,  wandering  free,  the  grazing  flocks  are  seen  ; 
A  mountain  world— far  from  the  noise  of  cities, 

Away  from  all  the  restless  haunts  of  men  ; 
With  lonely  heights,  and  strange  primeval  forests, 

Romantic  gorge,  and  deep  secluded  glen. 

How  grandly  through  these  vales  and  mountain  passes, 
The  storms  of  winter  rolled  along  their  path ! 

Through  the  long  nights  we  heard  the  fitful  dirges 
Of  the  wild  tempest,  moaning  in  its  wrath ; 


THE   MOUNTAIN   SPKING.  35 

But  when  the  moon,  in  full  autumnal  glory, 
Shed  down  her  dreamy  light  upon  these  hills, 

How  like  enchanted  silence,  broken  only 
By  the  soft  cadence  of  the  glancing  rills ! 

In  a  deep  recess  of  a  wooded  valley, 

Close  to  the  mountain's  broad  and  rugged  base, 
A  covert  thick  with  shadows— where  the  sunlight 

Struggled  through  leafy  folds  to  find  the  place, 
A  little  spring  came  gushing  from  the  hillside, 

From  the  cool  caverns  of  that  rock-ribbed  land, 
Whose  waters,  clear  as  crystal,  ever  rippling, 

Played  in  their  little  bed  of  shining  sand. 

Through  all  the  changes  of  the  fitful  seasons, 

In  summer's  heat  and  in  the  winter's  snow, 
In  drought  and  deluge,  still  the  little  fountain 

Sent  out  its  waters  in  unchanging  flow; 
The  mighty  hills  were  its  eternal  balance, 

Its  everlasting  store-house  of  supply, 
Still  flowing  on,  while  generations  perish, 

And  the  old  forest  monarchs  fail  and  die. 

And  gray- haired  men  repeat  the  tender  story 

Of  one  who  dwelt  amid  these  mountain  lands, 
A  man  of  flocks  and  herds  and  spreading  acres, 

And  wise  in  all  the  labor  of  his  hands ; 
A  man  beloved  and  honored,  tried  and  trusted, 

And  in  his  happy  home  the  joy  and  light, 
Till  o'er  him  fell  a  cloud  of  gloomy  darkness, 

And  all  his  day  was  changed  to  dismal  night. 


36  THE   MOUNTAIN   SPRING. 

He  dare  not  drink  the  pure  refreshing  water, 

Which  from  his  own  sweet  mountain  well  he  drew, 
But  he  was  minded  of  this  hillside  fountain, 

Where  God  sent  forth  his  Avaters,  ever  new  ; 
No  evil  hand  could  taint  this  limpid  current, 

Fresh  from  the  hidden  chambers  of  the  earth ; 
No  arm  of  hate  could  reach  the  mystic  channels, 

In  which  this  crystal  streamlet  had  its  birth. 

This  was  his  rock  of  God,  amid  the  desert, 

Where  like  a  trusting  child,  he  went  to  drink  ; 
The  way  was  long,  the  path  was  rough  and  toilsome, 

That  led  his  footsteps  to  its  shady  brink ; 
But  ever,  as  a  burning  thirst  came  o'er  him, 

With  weary  feet  he  trod  these  forest  ways, 
And  drank  his  fill,  at  this  full- flowing  fountain, 

And  snatched  brief  memories  of  his  better  days. 

The  summer  months  passed  slowly,  and  the  autumn 

With  all  its  leafy  splendors  glided  by, 
But,  to  his  sight,  the  bright  earth  was  a  prison, 

And  no  autumnal  glories  cheered  his  eye ; 
But  when  the  sharp  winds  of  the  early  winter 

Swept  through  these  valleys,  with  their  icy  breath, 
His  trembling  limbs  no  more  could  bear  their  burden, 

And  God  sent  down  the  sweet  release  of  death. 

Plow  on,  thou  clear  and  pleasant  hillside  fountain ! 

Though  the  years  darken  round  my  lonely  way, 
I  know  that  others  bend  to  drink  thy  waters, 

And  happy  children  on  thy  borders  play ; 


NELLIE.  37 

And  while  the  world  grows  old,  and  nations  vanish, 
And  the  slow- rolling  centuries  come  and  go, 

Like  God's  own  love,  unfailing  and  eternal, 
Thy  cooling  current  shall  not  cease  to  flow. 


NELLIE. 

The  April  morning  on  the  hills 

Breaks  peacefully  and  fair, 
As  if  the  earth  was  full  of  joy, 

And  had  no  woes  to  bear : 
The  soft  light  falls  on  dewy  fields, 

Fresh  in  their  virgin  green, 
And  swelling  buds  and  opening  leaves 

On  every  side  are  seen. 

In  at  the  open  windows,  pour 

The  happy  tides  of  song, 
And  all  the  air  is  resonant 

With  music  rich  and  strong; 
How  like  a  mockery  in  our  ears, 

This  chorus  free  and  wild ! 
While  we  stand  bending  o'er  our  dead, 

Our  dear  and  darling  child. 

But  yesterday,  when  morning  broke, 
Her  song  was  full  and  free ; 

Her  happy  voice  chimed  in  to  meet 
This  outward  melody; 


38  NELLIE. 

That  happy  voice  is  hushed  and  still, 
These  hands  their  places  keep ; 

These  shining,  starry  eyes  are  closed 
In  their  eternal  sleep. 

Tis  all  a  dream — a  strange,  strange  dream, 

What  one  short  day  has  done : 
The  morning  saw  her  in  her  joy, 

But  at  the  setting  sun 
Her  wandering  mind  and  busy  hands 

Filled  all  our  hearts  with  dread, 
And  ere  the  evening  hours  had  passed, 

She  slept,  as  sleep  the  dead. 

0  God !  how  tender  was  thy  love, 

When  this  dear  child  was  given ! 
How  precious  was  she  in  our  sight, 

Fresh  from  her  native  heaven ! 
Her  soul  ran  o'er  with  happiness 

From  morning  dawn  till  night, 
And  like  some  blessed  angel  guest 

She  filled  our  home  with  light. 

We  bless  Thee  for  the  memories 

Of  this  dear  loving  child  ', 
We  bless  Thee,  that  for  four  short  years 

Upon  our  home  she  smiled  '. 
For  her  pure,  bright,  unselfish  life, 

Her  winning  words  and  ways  ; 
And  these  sweet  memories  will  we  keep 

Through  all  our  future  days. 


KINGS. 

How  beautiful  in  death  she  lies, 

In  her  cold,  dreamless  sleep : 
O'er  her  fair  head  her  sunny  locks 

In  careless  ringlets  creep : 
Her  lips,  half- parted,  bear  a  smile, 

As  when  she  said  good  night, 
And  all  her  face  seems  sprinkled  o'er 

With  heaven's  dawning  light. 

Go,  loved  one,  to  thy  Father's  house, 

To  that  pure  home  on  high, 
Where  fresher  fields  and  fairer  flowers 

Shall  open  on  thine  eye : 
To  the  dear  Shepherd  of  the  flock, 

Who  waits  with  arms  outspread, 
That  he  may  lay  his  gentle  hands 

In  blessings  on  thy  head. 


KINGS. 

THE  mightiest  kings  the  rolling  years  have  known, 
Stretching  their  empire  farthest  o'er  the  earth, 

Are  men  who  knew  no  splendors  of  a  throne, 
No  place  of  princely  birth. 

They  saw  God's  glory  on  the  mountain  heights; 

They  traced  His  handiwork  in  starry  skies  ; 
All  nature  spread  her  wealth  of  fair  delights 

Before  their  wondering  eyes. 


40  KINGS, 

In  the  far  shadows  of  the  ancient  days, 

Went  forth  a  stranger  from  Chaldean  lands,   [ways, 

Wandering  from  clime  to  clime  through  unknown 
Still  led  by  unseen  hands. 

The  world  lay  dark  before  his  pilgrim  feet, 
As  he  toiled  onward,  lonely  and  unblest, 

Seeking  through  winter  storm  and  summer  heat 
To  find  his  land  of  rest. 

Yet  from  this  wanderer  sprang  that  wondrous  race, 
Which  lived  while  ancient  empires  went  and  came, 

And  now  the  patriarch  holds  on  earth  a  place 
Beyond  all  kingly  fame. 

Along  the  banks  where  Nilus  rolls  his  tide, 
Sleeps  the  proud  dust  of  Egypt's  early  kings  ; 

While  the  low  wind,  from  the  far  desert  side, 
Its  mournful  requiem  sings. 

These  haughty  tyrants,  stained  with  shame  and  guilt, 
Thought  to  defy  the  wasting  touch  of  time, 

By  giant  tombs,  which  toiling  thousands  built 
Beneath  that  burning  clime. 

Lo,  now !  These  sepulchres  in  mockery  stand ; 

Their  chambers  empty  as  an  echoing  shell ; 
Of  those  old  kings — all  that  they  thought  and  planned 

They  have  no  tale  to  tell. 

A  Hebrew  boy,  child  of  a  captive  race, 

Snatched,  at  his  birth,  from  Pharaoh's  bloody  hand, 

Found,  at  the  last,  an  unknown  burial-place, 
In  Moab's  mountain  land. 


KINGS.  41 

Yet  all  the  kings  that  sat  on  Egypt's  throne, 
Their  glory,  pomp  and  power  combined  in  one, 

Are  poor  and  mean,  forgotten  and  unknown, 
Measured  with  Amram's  son. 

In  many  climes,  from  east  to  utmost  west, 
His  stately  name  in  shining  glory  stands  ; 

And  wider  still,  his  spreading  fame  shall  rest  . 
O'er  earth's  far -lying  lands. 

The  blind  old  man,  who  sang  his  wondrous  song 
To  Grecia's  warlike  tribes  when  Greece  was  young, 

Whose  echoing  strains  the  ages  yet  prolong, 
In  many  a  stranger  tongue ; 

The  high- browed  Plato,  crowned  with  heavenly  light, 

Sitting  as  Master  in  the  Academe, 
Holding  discourse  of  God  and  truth  and  right, 

And  each  divinest  theme ; 

The  strong  souled  Saxon,  trusting  God  alone, 
D  aring  to  stand  for  truth  and  liberty, 

Hurling  defiance  at  the  papal  throne, 
And  setting  nations  free ; 

The  full- orbed  Shakespeare,  with  his  radiant  eye, 
Peering  through  peasant's  cot  and  palace  hall, 

Ranging  at  will  o'er  earth  and  air  and  sky, 
At  fancy's  fairy  call ; 

The  men  who  sound  the  heavens  and  weigh  the  stars, 
And  make  safe  pathways  o'er  the  stormy  deep, 

Who  gird  the  hill- tops  with  their  iron  bars, 
And  bridge  the  mountain  steep  ; 


42  C.ESAR    AND    CHRIST. 

Who  knit  the  world  up  with  electric  threads, 
That  land  may  talk  with  land,  as  friend  with  friend, 

Flashing  their  messages,  on  ocean  beds, 
To  earth's  remotest  ends  ; 

Men  of  high  action  and  of  lofty  thought, 

Whose  words  and  deeds  in  living  beauty  shine, 

While  countless  kings  are  buried  and  forgot, — 
These  rule,  by  right  divine. 


CAESAR  AND   CHRIST. 
WHEN  Rome  in  her  imperial  pride, 

With  conquering  banners  all  unfurled, 
Had  spread  her  haughty  conquests  wide, 

And  sat  sole  empress  of  the  world ; 
Her  dream  was  full — her  throne  at  length 
Seemed  girt  with  universal  strength. 

On  her  seven  hills,  in  glittering  state, 
Temple  and  palace  shine  afar ; 

There  dwell  her  mighty  ones  and  great— 
Her  nobles  and  her  men  of  war ; 

And  all  her  streets  resound  with  mirth, 

For  Rome  is  mistress  of  the  earth. 


Far  off,  in  Judah's  captive  land, 

Where  bards  and  prophets  once  have  trod, 
There  lingers  yet  a  broken  band — 

A  race  forsaken  of  its  God ; 
But  from  this  race  a  King  shall  rise 
To  sway  all  earthly  destinies. 


CLESAR    AND    CHRIST.  43 

The  fulness  of  the  time— foretold 

In  vision,  song,  and  prophecy, 
By  all  the  holy  men  of  old — 

The  fulness  of  the  time  draws  nigh ; 
When  Jacob's  Star,  with  light  divine, 
O'er  the  bewildered  race  shall  shine. 

It  was  a  night  when  earth  was  still ; 

The  heavens  in  silent  splendor  shone ; 
The  winds  breathed  low  on  every  hill, 

And  stars  looked  down  on  mountain  lone, 
Till  old  Judea,  rough  and  wild, 
In  strange  and  dreamy  beauty  smiled. 

Away,  amid  the  lonely  hills, 

The  gentle  shepherds  watched  their  sheep, 
And  heard  the  tinkling  mountain  rills 

Make  music  on  the  rocky  steep  ; 
Till  on  their  ear,  from  heights  above, 
The  angels  poured  their  song  of  love. 

This  was  that  strange  prophetic  night, 
Dreamed  of,  through  all  the  years  of  old, 

When  lawless  Power  should  yield  to  Right, 
And  earth  should  have  its  age  of  gold ; 

The  rightful  King  should  take  the  throne, 

And  shape  an  empire  all  his  own. 

This  night,  in  Bethlehem's  lowly  shed, 

The  Wonderful,  The  Counsellor, 
The  Prince  of  Peace,  Earth's  sovereign  Head, 

Mightier  than  all  her  men  of  war, 
Is  bom  of  woman — born  to  share 
A  human  mother's  love  and  care. 


44  THE   BATTLE    OF    THE   WILDERNESS. 

Afar,  within  Rome's  iron  walls, 
Men  dream  of  empire  as  of  old, 

Through  all  her  gay  tumultuous  halls 
Her  lords  their  midnight  revels  hold : 

Unknown  to  them  this  kingly  birth, 

Unknown  this  wonder  of  the  earth. 


The  rolling  centuries  come  and  go, 
And  Christ's  dominion  stretches  on ; 

His  empire,  silently  and  slow, 
Rises  o'er  empires  lost  and  gone ; 

His  march  is  strong — his  conquests  sure — 

His  kingdom  founded  to  endure. 

Reign,  reign,  O  King,  with  ampler  power ! 

Happy  the  land  that  feels  thy  sway ! 
Bring  in  that  bright  and  joyous  hour, 

When  earth  thy  sceptre  shall  obey ! 
When  heathen  tribes,  in  gladsome  awe, 
And  sea-girt  isles,  shall  own  thy  law, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  WILDERNESS. 

A  MAIDEN  is  pacing  her  lonely  room, 

In  the  midnight  dark  and  deep, 
The  earth  seems  drear  and  sad  as  the  tomb, 
As  she  glances  outward  into  the  gloom, 
And  her  eyes  can  know  no  sleep. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    WILDERNESS.  45 

Maiden,  this  is  the  month  of  May, 

And  the  earth  is  soft  and  green, 
The  whispering  winds  with  the  leaflets  play, 
And  the  birds  with  songs  will  welcome  the  day, 

And  dance  in  its  morning  sheen. 

Deeper  and  darker  waxes  the  night, 

What  cares  she  for  May  with  its  bloom  ? 
Her  eyes  are  filled  with  a  strange,  strange  light, 
And  she  looks  far  off  with  a  yearning  sight, 
Through  the  thick  enveloping  gloom. 

Maiden,  think  not  thou  art  watching  alone, 

For  thousands  their  vigils  keep, 
Mothers  and  wives  and  maidens  make  moan, 
Through  the  weary  night,  as  they  toss  and  groan, 

And  their  eyes  can  know  no  sleep. 

For  rumors  are  floating  on  all  the  air, 

Of  armies  along  their  way ; 
The  noise  of  drums  and  the  trumpet's  blare, 
Bid  the  gathering  squadrons  haste  and  prepare 

To  join  in  the  dreadful  fray. 

And  the  letters  have  ceased — these  heralds  of  love, 

That  came  from  the  quiet  camp  ; 
Coming  as  angels  come  from  above, 
Missives  borne  home  as  on  wings  of  the  dove 

To  be  read  by  the  midnight  lamp. 

And  tidings  have  come  with  the  lightning's  flash, 

They  reached  us  at  set  of  the  sun, 
Of  the  bold  advance  and  the  martial  dash, 
Of  the  mighty  roar  and  the  terrible  crash 

Of  the  battle  already  begun. 


46  THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    WILDERNESS. 

The  mustering  hosts  have  passed  out  of  our  sight, 
To  the  depth  of  the  Wilderness'  shade, 

To  join  in  that  long  but  victorious  fight, 

Though  it  shake  the  broad  land  with  fear  and  affright, 
Making  hearts  that  are  stoutest  afraid. 

O  maiden,  look  not  from  the  window  again, 

But  wait  for  the  breaking  of  day ; 
Thine  eyes,  they  are  weary  with  watching  and  pain ; 
They  are  restless  and  wild,  and  thou  lookest  in  vain 

For  thy  lover  so  far  away. 

Can  a  maiden's  heart  rest,  when  her  fears  are  awake 

For  one  who  is  dearer  than  life? 
For  one,  whose  courage  no  danger  can  shake, 
"Who  has  counted  the  cost  and  set  life  on  the  stake, 

And  will  be  in  the  thick  of  the  strife  ? 

Ah  maiden,  'tis  well  that  weak  is  thy  sight, 

For  thy  lover  lies  dead  on  the  ground ; 
The  armies  file  by  in  the  shadows  of  night, 
To  give  battle  again  with  the  dawning  of  light, 

But  he  heeds  not  the  tumult  around. 

God  pity  thee,  maiden,  and  list  to  thy  cry, 

When  the  messenger  comes  to  thy  door,  [die, 

For  the  young  men  must  fall,  and  the  young  men  must 
With  none  bending  o'er  them  to  catch  the  last  sigh 
Or  give  ear  to  the  words  they  implore. 

And  pity  the  mothers  and  maidens  afar, 

Who  must  weep  and  lament  for  the  slain, 
For  war  plants  many  a  horrible  scar, 
Amid  mountains  and  vales,  far  away  from  the  jar 
And  the  smoke  of  the  battle- plain. 


EARTH'S  WONDERS.  47 


EARTH'S   WONDERS. 

WHY  must  I  roam  the  earth  afar, 
And  toil  through  distant  lands, 

Beneath  the  soft  Italian  star ; 
Across  Egyptian  sands ; 

To  trace  the  ravages  of  war, 

And  wrecks  of  human  hands  ? 

The  grandest  sights  earth  has  to  show, 
Stand  wide  for  you  and  me  ; 

The  mightiest  wonders  here  below, 
God's  children  all  may  see, 

As  on  their  daily  paths  they  go, 
With  spirits  glad  and  free. 

Go  climb  the  nearest  mountain  height, 
And  watch  the  sun's  decline : 

Mark  how  the  colored  bars  of  light 
On  Summer  landscapes  shine  ; 

Till  meadows  glow  with  radiance  bright, 
With  splendors  half  divine. 

Go  see  the  full  moon,  calm  and  still, 

On  autumn  valleys  rest ; 
Her  dreamy  veil  thrown  round  the  hill 

And  lonely  mountain  crest, 
Till  earth  is  hushed  to  God's  sweet  will, 

And  in  His  smile  is  blest. 


48  EARTH'S  WONDERS. 

Why  must  I  seek  the  ruined  heaps 
Which  groaning  captives  piled  ; 

Where  musing  memory  sits  and  weeps 
And  mercy  never  smiled ; 

And  where  stern  desolation  keeps 
Her  empire  strange  and  wild? 

I  lose  myself  in  shady  nooks, 
To  watch  the  ways  of  God ; 

To  read  fair  Nature's  open  books 
In  cloisters  seldom  trod, 

With  music  from  the  running  brooks, 
And  winds  that  stir  abroad. 

What  though  I  never  shall  behold 
The  realms  of  ancient  skill ; 

The  mighty  palaces  of  old, 
On  many  a  lordly  hill ; 

Temples  bedecked  with  stolen  gold, 
To  please  some  tyrant's  will? 

I've  seen  the  march  of  breaking  day, 
With  cloudy  banners  bright ; 

I've  seen  Orion  on  his  way, 
Along  the  fields  of  light ; 

And  fiery  streamers  dance  and  play 
Above  the  Arctic  night. 

There  is  no  charm  of  joy  that  springs 

From  man's  laborious  art, 
To  touch  the  soul's  most  secret  strings 

And  soothe  the  restless  heart, 
Like  that  sweet  calm  which  Nature  brings, 

And  God's  great  works  impart. 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA.  49 

Then  if  I  tread  no  foreign  strand, 

And  see  no  alien  sky, 
But  linger  in  my  native  land 

Until  the  day  I  die, 
God's  works  and  wonders,  high  and  grand,. 

Have  passed  before  mine  eye. 


THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  SEA. 

IN  our  lonely  home  the  fire  burns  bright, 

And  the  shadows  play  on  the  wall, 
But  there's  trouble  abroad  on  the  sea  to-night, 

And  none  can  answer  its  call ; 
In  the  lull  of  the  wind,  we  hear  from  the  shore 

The  mighty  swing  of  the  sea, 
As  it  breaks,  with  its  strange  tumultuous  roart. 

In  its  awful  majesty. 


All  day,  in  our  ears,  the  sighing  blast 

Has  told  of  the  gathering  storm, 
And  now,  with  the  night,  it  comes  at  last 

In  its  wildest,  fearfullest  form : 
The  heavens  are  filled  with  the  whirling  snow, 

And  the  sea- spray  rides  on  the  gale, 
While  the  tempest  dirges  come  and  go 

Like  a  sad  funereal  wail. 
4 


50  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

We  think,  as  we  watch  the  flickering  flame, 

Of  a  night  in  the  years  gone  by, 
When  out  of  the  howling  darkness  came 

A  sad  and  pitiful  cry : 
As  we  hurried  apace  to  the  sounding  shore, 

That  cry  on  the  wind  went  past, 
A  moment  heard,  then  lost  in  the  roar 

Of  a  louder,  angrier  blast. 

O  God !  how  weak  is  a  human  hand 

When  thy  winds  are  abroad  in  their  might ! 
When  thou  ridest  in  storm  over  ocean  and  land, 

Pavilioned  in  tempest  and  night ! 
There  came,  once  again,  on  the  wings  of  the  gale, 

A  loud  and  more  desolate  cry, 
And  it  needed  no  more  to  tell  us  the  tale 

Of  man,  in  his  agony. 

In  our  lonely  home  the  fire  burns  bright, 

And  the  shadows  play  on  the  wall ; 
But  pity  the  sailor-boys  struggling  to-night 

Where  none  can  answer  their  call. 
What  hand  can  be  strong,  what  heart  can  be  bold, 

When  the  midnight  hurricane  raves  ? 
O  pity  the  sailor- boys,  hungry  and  cold, 

Who  fight  with  these  tempest- tost  waves. 


TOIL   AND   BEST.  51 


TOIL  AND  REST. 


"  For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


WHEN  sets  the  weary  sun, 

And  the  long  day  is  done, 
And  starry  orbs  their  solemn  vigils  keep; 

When  bent  with  toil  and  care, 

We  breathe  our  evening  prayer, 
God  gently  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

When  by  some  slanderous  tongue 

The  heart  is  sharply  stung, 
And  with  the  sense  of  cruel  wrong  we  weep ; 

How  like  some  heavenly  calm, 

Comes  down  the  soothing  balm, 
What  time  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

O  sweet  and  blessed  rest, 

With  these  sore  burdens  pressed, 
To  lose  ourselves  in  slumbers,  long  and  deep ; 

To  drop  our  heavy  load 

Beside  the  dusty  road, 
When  He  hath  given  His  beloved  sleep. 


52  TOIL    AND    REST. 

And  on  our  closed  eyes 

"What  visions  may  arise, 
What  sights  of  joy  to  make  the  spirit  leap, 

What  memories  may  return, 

From  out  their  golden  urn, 
If  God  but  giveth  His  beloved  sleep ! 

And  when  life's  day  shall  close 

In  death's  last  deep  repose, 
When  the  dark  shadows  o'er  the  eyelids  creep ; 

Let  us  not  be  afraid, 

At  this  thick  gathering  shade, 
For  so  God  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

To  sleep  ? — it  is  to  wake, 

When  the  fresh  day  shall  break, 
When  the  new  sun  climbs  up  the  eastern  steep ; 

To  wake  with  new-born  powers, 

Out  from  these  darkened  hours, 
For  so  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

To  die?  it  is  to  rise 

To  fairer,  brighter  skies, 
Where  Death  no  more  shall  his  dread  harvests  reap 

To  soar  on  angel  wings, 

Where  life  immortal  springs, 
For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 


THE   GREAT   CITY   AT   MIDNIGHT.  53 


THE  GREAT  CITY  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

A  VOICE  of  weeping  and  of  lamentation, 

From  the  great  city,  with  its  shame  and  sin ; 

The  wail  of  souls,  that  feel  their  degradation, 
All  that  they  are,  and  all  they  might  have  been. 

In  the  deep  silence  of  their  midnight  waking, 
When  left  alone  with  Conscience  and  their  God, 

They  mourn  the  hour,  when  Heaven's  kind  voice  for 
saking, 
They  left  the  paths  their  early  feet  have  trod. 

In  haunts  of  vice,  in  prisons  cold  and  dreary, 
In  vile  abodes  where  guilt  and  horror  reign, 

How  many  wretched  spirits,  worn  and  weary, 
Drag  out  the  night  in  fear  and  hopeless  pain ! 

Their  thoughts  go  back  to  the  old  vales  and  mountains, 
To  happy  homes  amid  green  fields  afar, 

When  they  went  wandering  by  the  hill- side  fountains, 
And  hope  rose  in  them  like  the  morning  star. 

O  wretched  souls ! — if  once  they  look  before  them. 
They  see  a  future,  wild  and  tempest  tost', 

And  looking  backward,  busy  thoughts  come  o'er  them 
Of  the  fair  heritage  their  sin  has  lost. 

Is  there  a  balm  to  heal  the  broken  spirit? 

Is  there  a  cure  for  sin's  most  deadly  blight? 
This  cry  of  souls — O  God  in  Heaven,  hear  it, 

And  draw  them  out  of  darkness  into  light. 


54  THE    TWO    SONGS. 


THE  TWO  SONGS. 

Two  songs  go  up  forever  from  the  earth  : 
One  the  full  choral  swell  of  joy  and  gladness  ; 
The  other  is  a  strain  unknown  to  mirth, 
The  low,  sad  wail  of  mortal  grief  and  sadness. 
Turn  where  we  may,--in  lands  afar  or  near, 
These  songs  of  joy  and  woe  are  still  ascending ; 
Voices  of  love,  and  hope,  and  gladsome  cheer 
With  notes  of  sorrow  are  forever  blending. 

Here  ruddy  health  goes  singing  on  its  way ; 
There  the  pale  sufferer  o-n  his  couch  is  lying ; 
Here  the  glad  shout  of  children  at  their  play ; 
There  the  sharp  farewell  cries  about  the  dying : 
Here  a  fond  mother  walking  in  the  light, 
Because  her  darling  son  has  come  to  honor ; 
And  there  a  mother,  sobbing  out  the  night, 
Whose  darling  son  has  brought  disgrace  upon  her. 

Hark,  the  glad  music  on  the  morning  air, 

When  the  sweet  summer  day  is  just  awaking ; 

And  hark  afar,  those  accents  of  despair 

On  the  wild  shores  where  stormy  waves  are  breaking. 

Here  rings  aloud  the  merry  marriage  bell, 

And  some  fair  bride  goes  with  her  maids  attended ; 

And  there  is  tolling  the  sad  funeral  knell, 

As  some  young,  happy  mother's  life  is  ended. 


WHO    SAW   THE    STAR?  55 

Such  are  the  songs  that  echo  o'er  the  earth  ; 

Our  pathway  now  in  light,— now  sad  and  dreary ; 

The  hours  of  grief  press  close  the  hours  of  mirth, 

And  happy  days  give  place  to  days  aweary : 

But  in  the  habitations  of  the  blest, 

In  that  fair  land  beyond  the  gloomy  river, 

The  tired  soul  shall  find  its  long- sought  rest, 

And  the  glad  songs  of  joy  go  up  forever. 


WHO  SAW  THE  STAR? 

WHO,  of  earth's  dwellers,  saw  the  wondrous  star, 
Gilding  the  heavens  on  that  mysterious  night, 

Lighting  Judea's  hill-tops  from  afar, 

And  flooding  Bethlehem  with  its  mystic  light? 

Who  heard,  with  awe- struck  souls,  the  angel  choirs 
Pouring  their  strains  from  unseen  heights  above, 

Winging  to  earth,  on  their  seraphic  lyres, 

That  marvellous  song  of  peace  and  heavenly  love? 

Who  saw  and  heard?  Not  the  great  ones  and  proud, 
Busy  in  search  of  power  and  fame  and  gold ; 

With  thoughts  cast  down,  a  mad  and  restless  crowd, 
They  sought  their  low-born  pleasures,  as  of  old. 

Not  haughty  monarchs  in  their  lordly  pride, 

Sitting  enthroned  in  palaces  of  state, 
Dreaming  to  stretch  their  empire  far  and  wide, 

And  bind  the  nations  fast  in  chains  of  hate. 


6  WHO    SAW   THE    STAR? 

That  herald  light,  the  lonely  shepherds  see, 
Watching  their  flocks  amid  the  silent  hills, 

With  sleeping  sheep,  with  stars  for  company, 
And  tinkling  music  from  the  mountain  rills. 

That  choral  strain,  unknown  to  monarch's  ear, 
Unheard  amid  the  stir  and  noise  of  earth, 

Heaven's  loving  anthem,  simple  shepherds  hear 
And  learn  the  marvel  of  Emmanuel's  birth. 

God  loves  the  gentle  shepherds.     He  of  old 

Called  Amram's  son,  from  keeping  of  the  sheep, 

Brought  him  afar  from  Horeb's  desert  fold, 
To  lead  his  chosen  tribes  across  the  deep. 

When  Jesse's  first  born  sons,  with  eager  joy, 
Warlike  and  strong  before  the  prophet  stand, 

Their  dreams  are  vain ;  the  ruddy  shepherd  boy 
Goes  from  the  fold  to  Israel's  high  command. 

So  on  that  night  when  Bethlehem's  star  arose, 
Kings  knew  not  what  was  passing  on  the  earth ; 

To  humble  shepherds,  hovering  angels  chose 
To  tell  the  secret  of  the  marvellous  birth. 

Earth's  mighty  centuries  have  rolled  away, 
Since  that  strange  orb  arose  to  gild  the  night, 

And  many  kings  have  lived  their  little  day, 
And  many  empires  vanished  from  the  sight. 

But  Bethlehem's  lowly  babe,  no  more  unknown, 
Before  the  world  in  form  majestic  stands, 

Claims  the  wide  earth  for  empire,  all  His  own, 
With  subjects  countless  as  the  countless  sands, 


EVENING  AT   CAPE   ANN.  57 


EVENING  AT  CAPE  ANN. 

So  sinks  the  peaceful  day ; 
The  weary  sun  goes  down  to  glorious  rest, 
And  fleecy  clouds,  in  burning  splendor  drest, 

Hang  round  his  shining  way. 

Gently  comes  in  the  night ; 
Softly  her  silent  shadows  are  unrolled, 
Till  vale  and  hill,  wrapt  in  her  somlre  fold, 

Fade  from  our  mortal  sight. 

On  this  wild  shore,  alone, 

Where  storm- torn  cliffs  o'erhang  the  spreading  sea, 
And  where  the  swinging  tides,  unceasingly, 

Make  their  low  wailing  moan, 

I  watch  the  opening  sky, 

Through  which  the  stars  come  peering,  one  by  one, 
Their  orbs  unveiling,  as  the  lordly  sun 

Lays  his  dominion  by. 

And  now  heaven's  glorious  arch 
Is  set  at  last,  in  all  its  bright  array ; 
The  starry  host,  along  its  ancient  way, 

Takes  its  majestic  march. 

'Tis  good,  in  this  still  hour, 
To  gaze  and  dream — to  sit  in  quiet  thought, 
Amid  the  marvellous  wonders  God  has  wrought, 

And  feel  their  silent  power. 


58 


EVENING   AT   CAPE   ANN. 


On  such  a  night,  of  old, 
The  shepherd -bard  of  Judah  kept  his  sheep, 
And  while  the  weary  flock  lay  down  to  sleep, 

Safe  sheltered  in  the  fold, 

His  spirit  rose  on  high, 

To  range  the  heavens  and  catch  their  mystic  gleams, 
While  in  the  wanderings  of  his  happy  dreams, 

The  winged  hours  flew  by. 

Firmly  these  heavens  remain ; 
The  earth  rolls  on  with  change  and  vexing  wars, 
But  o'er  the  empire  of  the  silent  stars 

Quiet  and  order  reign. 

These  starry  orbs  abide : 
Arcturus  still  keeps  watch  above  the  north, 
And  arm'd  Orion  from  the  east  comes  forth, 

In  his  old  warrior  pride. 

Now  o'er  the  eastern  wave, 
Lo  the  round  moon  uprising  from  the  sea ! 
Up  the  still  heavens  she  rises,  grand  and  free, 

From  her  low  watery  grave. 

Along  the  unquiet  deep, 

She  casts  her  solemn  sheen  of  shivering  light, 
And  gaining  slowly  her  imperial  height, 

Rules  o'er  the  realms  of  sleep. 

The  soul  in  silent  awe 

Goes  sounding  through  these  boundless  fields  of  space, 
In  search  of  that  mysterious  dwelling-place 

Where  God  sends  forth  his  law. 


SAINTLY    WOMEN.  59 

O  God !  how  frail  is  man ! 
Amid  these  distances  and  heights  of  power ; 
Measured  as  now,  in  this  calm,  thoughtful  hour, 

With  Thy  far-reaching  plan ! 

Yet  in  thine  image  made, 

Man  feels  the  throbbings  of  this  boundless  whole, 
And  whirling  planets,  as  they  nightly  roll, 

Are  in  his  balance  weighed. 

Give  me  a  soul  at  peace, 

Filled  with  the  calm  which  rules  these  worlds  above, 
Till  every  thought  shall  bend  in  perfect  love, 

And  inward  conflict  cease ! 


SAINTLY  WOMEN. 

WITH  gentle  looks  and  hearts  made  calm  by  sorrow, 

I  see  them  moving  on  their  earthly  way ; 
They  wait,  in  patience,  what  may  come  to-morrow, 

Faithful  to  all  the  duties  of  to-day; 
They  watch  around  the  bedside  of  the  dying, 

And  soothe  the  suiferers  with  their  quiet  cares, 
They  seek  the  homes  where  new-born  grief  is  crying, 

And  mingle  service  with  their  silent  prayers. 

The  bloom  of  youth — the  blush  of  early  roses, 
Has  faded,  long  ago,  from  off  their  cheek, 

But  in  its  stead,  a  holy  peace  reposes, 
A  heavenly  beauty,  angel- like  and  meek : 


60  SAINTLY   WOMEN. 

The  mirth  and  song— the  choral  of  the  dances- 
Have  died  away  amid  departed  years, 

The  eyes  look  upward  now,  with  loving  glances, 
And  death  itself  is  shorn  of  all  its  fears. 

It  is  the  same  old,  ever- blessed  story, 

Of  holy  women,  clinging  round  the  cross  ; 
They  had  not  seen  the  Lord's  transfiguring  glory, 

But  they  were  with  Him  in  His  shame  and  loss : 
Around  His  grave,  with  ointments  and  sweet  spices, 

They  hovered,  as  the  birds  about  their  nest ; 
For  love  like  theirs  dies  not  in  cold  surmises, 

But  kindles  courage  in  the  humblest  breast. 

The  costliest  service  human  hands  can  render 

Comes  without  cost— is  never  bought  and  sold ; 
It  flows  from  human  hearts,  by  love  made  tender, 

And  moves  above  the  purchase- power  of  gold : 
On  the  same  paths  where  selfish  greed  is  stalking, 

Bating  all  virtue  at  a  market-price, 
These  saintly  feet  unselfishly  are  walking, 

To  comfort  pain  and  heal  the  wounds  of  vice. 

Then  tell  me  not  that  earth  is  wholly  barren, 

While  these  angelic  souls  still  linger  here ; 
Sweeter  than  roses  in  the  vale  of  Sharon, 

Are  their  kind  deeds,  besprinkled  with  a  tear ; 
And  heaven  itself  above  their  path  is  bending, 

To  watch  their  acts  of  mercy,  day  by  day, 
And  angel  bands  are  on  their  steps  attending, 

To  shed  a  glory  o'er  their  shining  way. 


A   WINTER   XIGHT.  61 


A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

A  STRANGE  enchantment  fills  the  world ; 

The  winter  winds  are  still ; 
A  dreamy,  mystic  silence  reigns 

O'er  mountain,  vale  and  hill : 
The  moon  climbs  up  the  eastern  sky, 

In  her  full  orb  of  light, 
And  looks,  from  deep  and  cloudless  heavens, 

On  boundless  fields  of  white. 

Fair  as  the  bright  and  shining  robes, 

In  heavenly  vision  seen  ; 
Pure  as  the  vesture  of  the  saints, 

That  raiment  white  and  clean ; 
So  pure  and  fair  these  snowy  folds, 

Fresh- woven  from  the  skies, 
That  lend  our  lowly  earth  a  grace 

Fit  for  angelic  eyes. 

How  peacefully  the  shadows  lie, 

All  sloping  to  the  west, 
More  beautiful  than  pictured  forms 

By  graver's  art  impressed! 
Each  twig  upon  the  leafless  tree, 

Each  tendril  of  the  vine, 
Is  caught  by  this  fair  tracery, 

In  every  bending  line. 

But  sharp  as  is  the  icy  breath 

That  floats  round  Alpine  heights  ; 


A    WINTER    NIGHT. 

Keen  as  the  wind  that  chills  the  blood 

In  lonely  Arctic  nights  ; 
So  keen  and  sharp  this  frosty  air, 

This  dense  o'ermastering  cold, 
From  which  the  muffled  wanderer  hastes 

To  find  some  sheltering  fold. 

The  night  moves  on,  and  one  by  one, 

The  lamps,  that  lately  shone, 
Are  quenched  in  farm-house  and  in  cot, 

And  moonlight  reigns  alone : 
The  last  belated  traveller 

Has  hied  him  to  his  nest, 
And  not  a  sigh  or  sound  disturbs 

This  realm  of  perfect  rest. 

How  many  a  wakeful  eye  to-night 

With  light  unwonted  gleams  ! 
How  many  a  thoughtful  soul  is  stirred 

With  longing,  happy  dreams ! 
All  that  is  good  and  pure  within 

Is  wakened  into  life, 
And,  like  some  far-off  vision,  fade 

All  earthly  sin  and  strife. 

If  God  can  make  our  world  so  fair, 

So  pure  before  our  eyes, 
What  shall  the  heavenly  glory  be 

Beyond  these  rolling  skies  ? 
If  He  can  robe  our  sinful  earth 

In  such  a  spotless  dress, 
What  shall  the  shining  vesture  be 

Of  His  own  righteousness  ? 


BUNKER    HILL. 


BUNKER  HILL. 

BRIEF  was  the  summer  night 
On  Bunker's  busy  height, 
One  hundred  years  ago, 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June ; 
When  a  thousand  sturdy  men, 
From  mountain,  vale,  and  glen, 
Threw  up  their  ramparts  silently, 
Beneath  the  silent  moon. 


They  had  heard  a  warlike  cry 
Ring  out  along  the  sky, 

From  Concord  and  from  Lexington, 

That  bloody  April  day ; 
And  from  many  a  lonely  town 
Strong  men  came  hurrying  down, 
Their  muskets  in  their  hands, 
To  join  the  battle  fray. 

These  are  no  hireling  braves, 
Like  George's  Hessian  slaves, 
Coarse,  mercenary  outcasts, 

Who  slaughter  for  their  gain : 
From  quiet,  happy  homes 
This  patriot  army  comes, 

With  weeping  households  left  behind 
They  ne'er  may  see  again. 


BUNKER    HILL. 

The  dwellers  by  the  sea, 
The  hardy  men  and  free, 

Who  brave  the  heaving  ocean 

When  eastern  tempests  roar, 
Have  left  their  boats  to  ride 
Upon  the  swinging  tide, 

Their  little  fishing  smacks  to  rot 
Along  the  lazy  shore. 

The  dwellers  on  the  soil, 
With  arms  made  strong  by  toil, 
Have  left  their  flocks  untended, 
Their  harvest  fields  unsown  ; 
On  many  a  lonely  hill 
The  little  farms  lie  still, 

The  garden-lands  and  corn-lands 
With  darnel  overgrown. 

This  ringing  call  to  war 
Has  sounded  out  afar, 

Down  the  New  England  valley, 

Along  her  western  steep  : 
And  o'er  that  northern  land, 
Where  the  grim  mountains  stand, 

Where  the  White  Hills  and  the  Green  Hills 
Their  solemn  sentry  keep. 

It  comes  at  last — the  hour 
When  Britain's  haughty  power 

Shall  learn,  too  late,  how  free-born  men 
Will  shake  her  ancient  throne ; 


BUNKER    HILL.  65 

Will  rend  her  galling  chain, 
And  spurn  her  guiding  rein, 
While  she  shall  reap  in  sackcloth 
The  whirlwind  she  has  sown. 


A  stir  amid  the  fleet ! 
And  a  stir  along  the  street ! 

The  hot  and  panting  messengers 

Are  running  to  and  fro ; 
The  steeple- tops  look  down 
On  a  bewildered  town, 
And  marvel  at  the  tumult 
That  fills  the  world  below. 

With  anger  in  his  eye, 
The  chieftain  gallops  by, 
And  waiting  for  his  orders 

The  high  subalterns  stand; 
He  points  to  yonder  height, 
Which  still  defies  his  might, 

And  wrath  is  burning  through  his  words, 
As  he  issues  his  command : 

41  What  madness  rules  the  hour ! 
Do  they  defy  my  power? 

These  low-born  rustics,  will  they  dig 

Their  own  ignoble  graves  ! 
Ring  out  the  quick  alarms 
And  call  the  men  to  arms  ; 

I'll  drive  them  from  their  burrow 

As  the  whirlwinds  drive  the  waves. 
5 


66  BUNKER   HILL. 

"  Summon  the  wandering  boats ! 
Yea  every  barge  that  floats, 

And  bear  my  trusty  men  across 

To  storm  yon  rebel  crest  I 
Come  on,  my  Grenadiers  ! 
With  shoutings  and  with  cheers, 

One  look  along  your  lines  will  fright 
These  miscreants  from  their  nest." 

Sooth,  'twas  a  goodly  sight, 
This  gathering  for  the  fight, 

These  firm- set  ranks  of  Englishmen, 

In  colors  bright  and  gay ; 
With  stars  upon  the  breast, 
With  plume  and  nodding  crest, 
How  proudly  to  the  battle 
They  took  their  cheerful  way ! 

But  ye  know  not  where  ye  go  ; 
Ye  have  despised  your  foe ; 

Pride  walks  before  destruction, 
And  swelling  words  are  vain  ; 
O  turn  and  look  once  more 
On  hill  and  sea  and  shore, 

And  catch  this  glorious  sunlight 
Ye  ne'er  may  see  again ! 

If  in  your  breast  has  stirred 
Some  kind  and  tender  word, 
Go  tell  it  to  your  messenger^ 
To  bear  across  the  deep  ; 


I  DWELL  AMONG  MINE  OWN  PEOPLE. '*        67 

For  ye  are  on  your  way 
To  death  this  very  day, 

And  in  your  far-off  English  homes. 
The  loving  ones  must  weep. 


'  I  DWELL  AMONG  MINE  OWN  PEOPLE. 

NAY,  tempt  me  not,  your  words  cannot  avail ; 

Speak  not  my  name  or  deeds  before  the  king ; 
I  dwell  with  mine  own  people,  in  the  dale, 

And  do  not  wish  the  honors  you  would  bring. 

My  people,  rude  of  tongue,  use  honest  speech ; 

Untaught  to  please,  they  please  by  simple  ways  ; 
And  their  untutored  language,  each  to  each, 

Is  nobler  than  all  false  and  courtly  phrase. 

From  the  king's  palace  comes  to  me,  afar, 
The  sound  of  strife — a  tumult  and  a  noise,. 

The  war  of  tongues — an  endless,  selfish  jar. 
Shall  I  exchange  for  this  my  quiet  joys  ? 

With  mine  own  people,  though  of  humble  lot, 
In  sweet  contentment  do  I  choose  to  dwell ; 

All  that  the  court  can  offer  lures  me  not 
From  these  calm  pleasures  of  my  native  dell : 

For  here  I  watch  the  early  daMTiing  light, 
And  trace  its  kindling  radiance  on  the  hills, 

And  walk  beneath  the  starry  heavens  at  night, 
And  hear  the  silver  songs  from  mountain  rills  ; 


68  THE    SNOW-STORM. 

And  singing  birds  make  music  on  my  way, 

And  bright- eyed  flowers  spring  up  beneath  my  feet, 

And  sportive  lambs  along  my  pastures  play, 
Or  wondering  flock  about  my  grassy  seat ; 

And  ancient  woods  embrace  me  with  their  shade, 
And  weave  around  me  their  undying  charm  ; 

Here  I  can  walk,  and  never  be  afraid, 

Can  ling  r  here,  and  dread  no  lurking  harm. 

But  at  the  court,  the  arrow  flies  by  day, 
And  dread  detraction  wanders  in  the  night, 

And  fierce  revenge  sits  waiting  for  its  prey, 
And  justice  sinks  before  the  hand  of  might. 

With  mine  own  people  then  I  choose  to  dwell, 
And  leave  the  court  to  those  who  love  its  noise ; 

Name  not  my  name — my  deeds  ye  need  not  tell, 
I  sit  apart  and  love  my  simple  joys. 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 

IN  the  early  dawn  of  the  morning. 

The  skies  began  dropping  their  snow, 
And  the  winds,  through  the  forests,  went  singing 

That  song  which  the  winds  only  know ; 
But  meanwhile  the  storm  has  been  rising, 

And  the  mad  winds  sweep  on  in  a  gale, 
They  come  from  the  fields  of  the  ocean, 

And  fill  the  wide  land  with  their  wail. 


TttE   SNOW-STORM.  69 

I  sit  at  my  study  window, 

And  look  abroad  on  the  world, 
And  watch  while  the  fleecy  snow- clouds 

On  the  wings  of  the  wind  are  whirled : 
My  book  lies  idle  before  me, 

And  I  gaze,  in  a  dreamy  trance, 
At  the  leaping,  warping  snow-flakes, 

As  they  move  in  their  mystic  dance. 

Who  knoweth  the  wonderful  secret, 

The  magical  power  of  this  spell? 
What  cunning  pen  can  unfold  it, 

Or  what  human  tongue  can  tell? 
This  dreamy  play  of  the  fancy, 

As  we  gaze  with  steadfast  eye, 
On  the  cloudy,  rolling  tempest, 

Moving  in  tumult  by? 

Is  the  charm  in  the  endless  commotion, 

Like  the  march  of  a  countless  host? 
Or  when  waves  on  waves  come  dashing 

On  a  wild  far-reaching  coast? 
Do  our  winged  thoughts  leap  upward, 

In  search  of  that  viewless  form, 
WTho  makes  of  the  cloud  His  chariot, 

And  rides  on  the  wings  of  the  storm  ? 

But  O,  the  Spirit  within  us  ! 

The  harp  with  its  mystical  strings, 
How  Nature  can  wake  it  to  music, 

With  the  breath  of  her  fluttering  wings ! 
Who  knoweth  the  marvellous  secret, 

The  magical  power  of  the  spell? 


70  THE   MIDNIGHT    TRAIN, 

What  cunning  pen  can  unfold  it, 
Or  what  human  tongue  can  tell  ? 

Then  blow,  ye  winds,  from  the  ocean, 

With  your  weird  and  musical  lay ! 
No  more  will  I  search  for  your  secret, 

But  yield  myself  up  to  your  play ; 
My  book  lies  idle  before  me, 

As  I  gaze,  in  a  dreamy  trance, 
At  the  rolling,  whirling  snow- cloud, 

Moving  in  mystic  dance. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  TRAIN. 

As  I  lay  awake  in  the  night, 

And  heard  the  pattering  rain, 
Faintly  I  caught  the  rumbling  sound 
Of  the  coming  midnight  train. 

The  world  was  murky  and  still, 

The  air  was  loaded  with  damp, 
And  on  the  folds  of  the  mist  it  came, 
The  noise  of  this  iron  tramp  ; 

Plunging  through  darkness  and  fog, 

Sending  its  signals  before, 
Searching  the  night  with  its  eye  of  flame, 
And  filling  the  earth  with  its  roar. 


THE   MIDNIGHT    TRAIN.  71 

I  knew  all  the  track,  and  could  tell 

By  the  sinking  and  swell  of  the  sound, 
When  it  darted  through  woods,  or  climbed  up  a  grade, 
Or  leaped  o'er  a  bridge  at  a  bound. 

Now  the  sound  floated  free  on  the  air, 

Now  it  died  round  the  curve  of  a  hill, 
Now  lost  to  the  ear  in  the  deep  rocky  pass, 
But  the  mad  thing  was  rushing  on  still ; 

Plunging  through  blackness  and  mist ; 

Sending  wild  'larums  before ; 
Howling  like  demon  of  darkness  let  loose 
From  Acheron's  fiery  shore. 

And  now  all  the  windings  are  passed, 

And  out  it  comes  on  to  the  plain, 
Shaking  the  earth,  as  it  tears  along 

Through  midnight  blackness  and  rain. 

O  that  some  forest  chief, 

From  his  ancient  woodland  nest, 

Might  peer  through  the  night,  and  catch  the  wild  sight 
Of  this  monster  troubling  his  rest. 

Nearer  and  nearer  it  comes, 

Louder  the  crash  and  the  roar, 
Bearing  its  precious  load  of  life. 
Two  hundred  souls  and  more. 

Many  their  errands  be  ; 

Some  journey  for  traffic  and  gain, 
Some  go  to  the  gloomy  chambers  of  death, 
And  some  to  the  bridal  train. 


72  VANISHED   FACES. 

Here  are  eyes  heavy  with  sleep, 

Here  bright  with  the  light  of  love, 
In  joy  and  in  tears,  with  hopes  or  with  fears, 
On  through  the  darkness  they  move. 

And  now  it  goes  by  with  a  leap, 

Wild  the  weird  flashes  it  throws, 
Out  of  thick  darkness  it  comes  in  its  flight, 
And  into  thick  darkness  it  goes, — 

Plunging  through  blackness  and  fog, 

Sending  loud  signals  before, 
Searching  the  night  with  its  eye  of  flame, 
And  filling  the  earth  with  its  roar. 


VANISHED  FACES. 

WITH  shivering  winds  from  the  ocean, 

And  snow-flakes  tossed  in  the  blast, 
The  darkness  came  down,  and  the  snow-clouds 

Are  whirling  till  midnight  is  past  r 
I  linger  in  dreams  by  the  fireside, 

And  watch  o'er  the  embers  at  play, 
As  they  gleam,  in  the  lift  of  the  tempest, 

Or  dusk,  as  the  dirge  dies  away. 

In  visions  come  flitting  before  me 
The  days  of  the  years  that  are  dead ; 

The  three- score  years  that  are  numbered, 
And  back  to  eternity  fled : 


VANISHED   FACES.  73 

At  each  step,  at  each  turn  of  the  journey, 
We  have  left  our  companions  behind ; 

They  dropt  as  the  leaves  of  the  autumn, 
And  were  hurried  away  with  the  wind. 

The  loved  ones  with  whom  we  took  counsel, 

Who  walked  with  us  once  by  the  way, 
How  they  throng  in  these  watches  of  midnight, 

But  are  gone  ere  the  breaking  of  day ! 
From  the  land  of  the  mist  and  the  shadow 

Their  faces  peer  out  to  the  light ; 
'Tis  a  look — 'tis  the  glimpse  of  a  moment, 

And  they  vanish  again  from  our  sight. 

Though  the  vision  vouchsafed  may  not  tarry, 

Yet  the  dream  and  the  vision  are  true ; 
We  have  seen  with  our  eyes  the  departed, 

We  have  looked  in  their  faces  anew : 
The  mother,  who  watched  by  our  cradle, 

The  father,  our  glory  and  pride, 
The  maiden,  whose  eyes  were  love-lighted, 

And  the  comrades  who  walked  by  our  side. 

They  were  clad  in  the  robes  of  the  morning, 

Or  the  glow  of  the  noontide  sun, 
Or  they  stood  in  the  shadows  of  evening, 

As  pilgrims  whose  journey  was  done : 
We  have  seen  them — their  faces  transfigured, 

And  a  mystical  light  on  their  head, 
For  the  fleshly  no  more  held  dominion, 

And  the  earthly- bom  passions  were  dead. 


74  THE   MAYFLOWER. 

O  fair  are  the  stars  that  besprinkle 

The  fields  of  the  heavenly  space ; 
But  fairer  the  radiance  shining 

In  a  saintly  and  purified  face ; 
So  we  sit  by  the  nickering  firelight, 

And  watch  the  old  faces  come  back, 
They  pass  in  a  dreamy  procession 

On  their  silent  and  shadowy  track. 


THE  MAYFLOWER. 

How  dar'st  thou  try  this  stormy  path, 

Thou  frail  and  struggling  bark ! 
Old  England's  shores  are  shut  from  sight 

Amid  the  gathering  dark. 
The  friends,  who  waved  their  sad  adieu, 

Have  homeward  gone  to  weep, 
And  thou  art  left,  a  lonely  waif, 

Upon  the  boundless  deep. 

Night  closes  round  thy  little  group 

Of  aching,  homesick  hearts, 
That  strive  to  hide  the  thoughts  which  rise, 

And  quench  the  tear  that  starts  ; 
But  hard  it  is,  on  wings  of  faith, 

To  mount  o'er  present  fears, 
And  see  the  glory  that  may  break 

Around  the  distant  years. 


THE   MAYFLOWER,  75 

Yet  sail  thou  on,  thou  shalt  not  fail 

To  reach  yon  waiting  shores  ; 
Thou  earnest  treasures,  costlier  far 

Than  Ophir's  golden  stores  ; 
If  Caesar's  bark  must  needs  be  safe 

Amid  the  angry  waves, 
The  men  thou  bearest  cannot  sink 

In  ocean's  gloomy  caves, 

Sail  gladly  on,  the  world  behind 

Is  rent  with  hate  and  strife ; 
The  canker  of  a  thousand  years 

Is  feeding  on  its  life ; 
Yea,  welcome,  as  thy  truest  friend, 

This  broad  dividing  sea ; 
Its  stormy  ramparts  are  thy  shield, 

The  world  beyond  is  free. 

The  little  seed,  by  Pilgrim  hands, 

In  fear  and  weakness  sown, 
May  wait  through  long  and  \veary  years 

Before  to  fulness  grown ; 
But  it  shall  stand,  a  mighty  tree, 

In  glory  and  in  pride, 
And  through  the  rising  ages  stretch 

Its  fruitful  branches  wide. 

Then  sail  thou  on,  though  torn  and  tossed 

By  tempests  driven  and  hurled, 
Thou  hast  the  charter  which  shall  shape 

And  rule  a  coming  world. 


THE   MAYFLOWER. 

The  tyrant  kings,  with  haughty  power, 
Who  scorned  thy  low  estate, 

Shall  roam  as  exiles  in  the  earth, 
And  on  thy  bidding  wait. 

Fair  freedom  from  this  hour  shall  date 

A  new  and  wondrous  birth ; 
The  light  of  liberty  shall  rise 

To  spread  o'er  all  the  earth ; 
The  monarch's  gilded  throne  shall  grow 

A  cheap  and  childish  thing, 
For  man  in  dignity  shall  stand, 

And  God  alone  be  king. 

Earth's  ancient  tribes  and  lands  remote; 

Where  Indus  rolls  his  tides, 
Or  where  the  Northern  dwellers  climb 

The  snowy  mountain  sides  ; 
Where  the  fierce  Arab  spurs  his  steed 

Across  the  burning  plain, 
Or  fur- clad  llussians  drive  the  deer 

With  freely  flowing  rein ; 

Where  the  dark  Ethiop  spreads  his  tent 

On  Afric's  Eastern  shores, 
Or  forest  hunters  skim  the  waves 

With  lightly  dipping  oars, — 
All  lands  beneath  the  circling  sun, 

All  islands  of  the  sea, 
As  centuries  roll  shall  taste  the  fruit 

From  this  fair  Pilgrim  tree. 


RIPE    FOR    HEAVEN.  77 


RIPE  FOR  HEAVEN. 

I  KNOW  an  aged  pilgrim,  worn  and  weary, 
Whose  feet  still  linger  on  the  sands  of  time  ; 

But  earth  for  him  is  all  too  cold  and  dreary, 
He  longs  to  reach  a  sunnier,  happier  clime. 

His  eye  is  dim,  his  ear  is  dull  of  hearing, 

Old  sights  and  sounds  disturb  his  soul  no  more, 

He  sees  the  goodly  hills,  their  crests  uprearing, 
The  sunlit  hills  upon  the  farther  shore. 

In  his  long  journey  o'er  the  desert  ranges, 

His  soul  has  known  sharp  conflicts  by  the  way, 

The  fierce  temptations,  and  the  bitter  changes, 
The  chills  of  night,  the  burning  heats  of  day. 

But  now  he  sits  in  patience  by  the  river, 
Gentle  and  quiet  as  a  weaned  child, 

Waiting  for  God  the  summons  to  deliver, 
To  call  him  up  to  mansions  undefiled. 

Ask  him  of  human  life,  its  plots  and  scheming, 
Its  small  ambitions  and  its  empty  joys  ; 

He  answers  like  a  sleeper  waked  from  dreaming, 
He  lives  afar  from  all  this  strife  and  noise. 

But  ask  of  Heaven,  and  of  the  joys  that  cluster 
Around  that  land  where  his  Redeemer  lives, 

His  fading  eye  lights  up  with  heavenly  lustre, 
And  his  quick  tongue  the  ready  answer  gives. 


YE    CHILDREN   OF   NEW   ENGLAND. 


DECEMBER  21sx, 
1620-1870. 

YE  children  of  New  England, 

Wherever  ye  may  be, 
Whether  ye  keep  the  ancient  homes 

Down  by  the  ancient  sea ; 
Treading  the  rocky  pathways 

Your  fathers  trod  before, 
Hearing  the  wild  Atlantic  break 

Along  her  stormy  shore ; 
Or  if  afar  ye  wander, 

O'er  the  prairies  of  the  West, 
Or  down  the  wide  Pacific  slopes, 

Your  weary  footsteps  rest : 

Come  listen  to  my  story, 

The  grand  ancestral  lay, 
Which  as  the  world  grows  older, 

Grows  newer  every  day ; 
Which  touches  men  with  pity, 

And  touches  men  with  pride, 
In  the  memory  of  those  noble  souls, 

For  God  who  lived  and  died. 

This  is  no  play  of  fancy, 

To  catch  a  listless  ear ; 
No  strange  and  shadowy  legend, 

For  idle  minds  to  hear, 


YE    CHILDREN   OF   NEW   ENGLAND.  79 

No  tale  of  love  and  sorrow, 

To  rob  the  eye  of  sleep 
O'er  which  pale  sickly  maidens 

May  weep  and  read  and  weep. 

Tis  a  tale  of  faith  and  patience, 

And  a  tale  of  cruel  wrong, 
When  the  good  to  earth  were  trampled, 

By  the  haughty  and  the  strong ; 
The  brave,  heroic  Pilgrims 

Could  find  no  place  of  rest, 
Save  o'er  the  stormy  ocean, 

In  the  forests  of  the  West. 

Behold  these  storm-tost  Pilgrims, 

On  a  rough  and  barren  shore ; 
With  the  sounding  sea  behind  them, 

And  the  wilderness  before ; 
Hungry  and  cold  they  house  them 

In  their  dwellings  rude  and  low, 
While  the  night  winds  howl  around  them 

With  their  drifting  clouds  of  snow. 

In  these  nights  of  care  and  watching, 

Long  nights  unblest  with  sleep, 
What  strange  fantastic  terrors, 

Over  the  spirits  creep  ! 
Out  from  these  unknown  forests, 

Come  stealing  on  the  ear, 
Weird  and  mysterious  voices, 

That  chill  the  soul  with  fear. 


80  YE    CHILDREN    OF    NEW    ENGLAND. 

Oh  the  terrors  of  that  winter, 

When  men  sickened  day  by  day, 
And  one  by  one,  as  weeks  rolled  on, 

They  dropt  and  passed  away ! 
There  was  no  harsh  and  murmuring  voice, 

No  sad  complaining  cry, 
But  silently  they  heard  the  call 

And  laid  them  down  to  die. 

Meekly  as  to  the  slaughter 

The  patient  lamb  is  led, 
Meekly  before  her  shearers 

As  the  sheep  bows  down  her  head ; 
So  bowed  these  humble  Pilgrims 

Before  the  chastening  rod, 
And  opened  not  their  mouth,  to  doubt 

The  goodness  of  their  God. 

Strong  men  and  gentle  women, 

The  maiden  in  her  bloom, 
The  little  child,  the  grey-haired  sire, 

Slept  in  their  hill-  side  tomb  ; 
They  were  buried  there  in  darkness, 

And  the  living  smoothed  their  bed, 
That  the  fierce  savage  might  not  tell 

The  number  of  the  dead. 

And  when  the  genial  sun  came  back, 
And  these  dark  months  were  o'er, 

When  through  the  budding  forests, 
The  soft  winds  blew  once  more, 


YE    CHILDREN    OF    NEW    ENGLAND.  81 

Half  of  their  number  could  not  feel 

Its  sweet  reviving  breath, — 
They  slept  upon  the  burial  hill 

The  icy  sleep  of  death. 

But  these  days  of  fiery  trial, 

Of  scorn  and  hate,  are  o'er, 
And  now  these  grand  old  Pilgrim  sires 

Shall  live  to  die  no  more ; 
Men  kindle  at  their  virtues, 

They  tell  with  swelling  pride 
The  story  of  those  men  of  old, 

For  God  who  lived  and  died. 


And  as  the  years  roll  onward, 

Through  the  ages  yet  to  be, 
As  wider  grows  and  widerj 

This  empire  of  the  free ; 
Grander  shall  grow  the  story 

Of  those  men,  true  and  tried, 
Those  noble  and  heroic  souls, 

For  God  who  lived  and  died, 


82  PLYMOUTH    AND    THE    BAY. 


PLYMOUTH  AND  THE   BAY. 

THEY  tell  of  the  mighty  founders, 

And  the  empires  great  of  old, 
Of  the  rough  gigantic  Nimrod, 

And  of  Romulus  the  bold, 
Of  the  fierce  barbaric  warriors, 

And  the  pirates  of  the  flood, 
Who  built  their  thrones  by  plunder, 

And  stained  their  courts  with  blood 
But  we  sing,  in  a  grander  story, 

Of  the  men  who  crossed  the  sea, 
To  change  these  western  forests 

To  an  empire  of  the  free ; 
The  hand  of  the  Lord  was  with  them, 

Along  their  perilous  way, 
And  they  laid  their  firm  foundations 

At  Plymouth  and  the  Bay. 

They  would  not  bend  the  conscience 

To  suit  a  tyrant's  frown, 
And  at  the  feet  of  haughty  kings 

They  would  not  bow  them  down  ; 
They  met  their  proud  oppressors 

With  calm  undaunted  eye, 
As  men  long  used  to  suffer, 

And  not  afraid  to  die ; 
In  the  strength  of  God  they  trusted, 

In  the  love  of  God  they  wrought, 


PLYMOUTH    AND    THE    BAY.  83 

Nor  gold,  nor  earthly  glory, 

Nor  praise  of  men,  they  sought. 

In  humble  faith  and  patience 
They  lived  their  little  day, 

And  laid  their  strong  foundations 
At  Plymouth  and  the  Bay. 

And  now,  when  generous  harvests 

Have  all  been  gathered  in, 
And  full,  ripe,  yellow  ears  of  corn 

Press  the  well- loaded  bin; 
When  the  sharp  chilly  north  wind 

With  a  wild  song  hurries  past, 
And  the  fallen  leaves  are  whirling 

Before  the  fitful  blast ; 
When  on  the  well- swept  hearthstones 

The  fires  are  burning  bright, 
And  children  gather  homeward 

With  merry  hearts  and  light, 
We  keep  our  glad  Thanksgiving 

In  memory  of  that  day 
Kept  by  the  brave  old  Founders 

At  Plymouth  and  the  Bay. 

Mean  was  their  earthly  treasure, 

And  small  their  harvest  store, 
But  they  blessed  the  faithful  Giver, 

And  did  not  covet  more ; 
They  sat  in  their  rude  dwellings, 

Close  by  the  stormy  sea, 
Rejoicing  most  of  all  that  now 

Their  weary  souls  were  free. 


84  RECONSTRUCTED    PILGRIM. 

Let  men  shoot  out  their  arrows, 

And  wing  their  words  of  hate, 
They  only  show  their  little  minds 

And  their  own  mean  estate : 
The  good,  the  noble  of  the  earth, 

Will  their  glad  homage  pay 
To  the  men  who  laid  foundations 

At  Plymouth  and  the  Bay. 


A   PILGRIM  FATHER   RECONSTRUCTED. 

FOREFATHERS'  DAY. — CONGREGATIONAL  CLUB. 
1880. 


THE  wandering  sun,  ranging  through  southern  skies, 

Has  touched  his  wintry  solstice.     O'er  the  north 

Fall  the  chill  shadows,  and  the  sickly  days, 

Pale-faced  and  wan,  are  quickly  lost  in  night. 

From  the  cold  heavens,  through  lonely  midnight  hours, 

The  glittering  stars  look  down  on  fields  of  ice, 

On  plains  and  mountains  wrapped  in  robes  of  snow. 

Along  the  headlands  of  our  rock-bound  coast 

The  wild  waves  roll,  and  the  hoarse  murmurs  break, 

Telling  the  lonely  dwellers  by  the  sea 

Of  far-off  winds  and  storms  and  tossing  barks. 


RECONSTRUCTED   PILGRIM.  85 

Now  is  the  midnight  of  our  northern  year: 
Nature  has  laid  aside  her  flowery  robes, 
And  clothed  herself  in  soberest  attire. 
All  sights  and  sounds,  in  earth  and  air  and  heaven, 
Recall  those  stern  historic  days  of  old, 
When  our  brave  Pilgrim  sires,  battling  with  waves, 
Struggling  with  icy  winds  and  adverse  fate, 
Made  their  rude  entry  on  these  western  shores. 
Now,  in  our  well- filled  homes,  by  genial  fires, 
We  read  the  tale, — tell  o'er  the  honored  names, 
Those  grand  and  simple  names  that  cannot  die, 
And  proudly  trace  our  ancient  lineage, 

We  read  the  critics  too,  those  sharp-eyed  men, 

Who  search  all  precious  ointments  through  and  through, 

Not  for  the  ointment's  sake,  to  prove  its  worth, 

But,  if  so  be,  to  find  out  and  report 

Some  smallest  fly  that  may  have  lodged  therein. 

Our  Pilgrim  critics  are  an  ancient  brood, 

Hovering  about  the  rock  from  age  to  age, 

With  nods  portentous,  and  with  croaking  voice. 

'Tis  well  to  read  these  critics — well  to  know 

Their  inmost  thought,  and  follow  where  they  lead. 

Guided  by  them,  and  walking  in  their  light, 

Let  us  now  reconstruct  our  Pilgrim  sires, 

And  show  what  men  our  fathers  should  have  been. 

The  Pilgrim  Father  should  have  been  a  man, 
Who  had  no  private  prejudice  to  smother, 

Built  on  a  large,  expansive,  liberal  plan, 

To  whom  one  thing  were  good  as  any  other ; 


86  RECONSTRUCTED    PILGRIM. 

Who,  had  he  lived  back  when  the  race  began, 

Would  not  have  minded  when  Cain  killed  his  brother ; 
A  man  so  very  round  and  full  and  pious 
As  to  be  free  from  every  shade  of  bias. 

He  should  have  patronized  with  equal  zeal 

Every  adventurous  and  random  rover ; 
Have  freely  shared  his  dear-bought  common  weal 

With  every  renegade  that  might  come  over ; 
Ready  to  grant  each  wanderer's  appeal, 

Whether  he  came  from  Holland,  Dublin,  Dover  ; 
A  man  who  held  it  strict  impartiality 
Not  to  distinguish  virtue  from  rascality. 

Once  here,  our  Pilgrim's  first  and  foremost  thought 
Ought  to  have  been  to  please  his  Indian  neighbor ; 

What  though  the  cunning,  lazy  savage  sought 
To  gain  his  living  without  care  or  labor  ; 

Still,  our  good  Pilgrim  ought  not  to  have  brought 
To  this  new  world  his  musket  and  his  sabre ; 

It  surely  was  not  generous  and  good 

To  frighten  these  poor  children  of  the  wood. 

They  were  the  dwellers  on  this  Western  soil, 

Centuries  before  the  Mayflower  went  a- cruising; 

If  they  preferred  to  live  exempt  from  toil, 

Who  had  the  right  to  hinder  them  from  choosing  ? 

Or,  if  they  forced  their  wives  to  slave  and  moil, 
Beating  or  killing  any  one  refusing, 

The  Pilgrim  Father  was  a  stranger  here, 

What  arrogance  in  him  to  interfere  1 


RECONSTRUCTED    PILGRIM.  87 

He  should  have  landed  on  this  Western  shore 
With  less  of  Bible,  and  with  more  of  science  ; 

Bible  is  good,  but  had  he  pondered  o'er 

What  science  taught,  and  made  that  his  reliance, 

He  could  have  reared,  from  his  exhaustless  store, 
An  empire  grand,  and  bid  the  world  defiance : 

Great  pity  that  with  chances  so  prodigious 

He  should  have  been  a  trifle  too  religious. 

Given,  just  scientific  lore  enough 

Simply  to  analyze  that  famous  boulder 

Called  Plymouth  Rock,  where  "  breaking  waves  dash 
ed  " — rough — 
That  rock  which  thrills  with  awe  each  new  beholder : 

Given,  the  mica,  quartz,  and  other  stuff 

Employed  and  used  by  the  primeval  molder 

To  forge,  by  aid  of  underground  caloric, 

That  marvellous  rock  now  grown  to  be  historic ; 

Given,  the  power  to  tell,  like  modern  sages, 

Somewhere  within  five  hundred  thousand  years 

How  old  that  boulder  is,  and  what  the  stages 
By  wrhich  it  journeyed  to  these  Plymouth  piers  ; 

To  trace  its  starting-point  in  by- gone  ages, 
And  show  how  easy  everything  appears  : 

Items  like  these  are  solid  information, 

Well  fitted  to  build  up  a  mighty  nation. 

But  we  go  prating  on  about  this  rock, 

Its  mental,  moral  and  religious  uses? 
We  treat  it  like  some  huge  aesthetic  block, 

Whose  very  name  to  boundless  good  conduces : 


88  RECONSTRUCTED   PILGRIM. 

We  feel  a  kind  of  sentimental  shock 

When  any  scoffer  offers  his  abuses  : 
From  sixteen  hundred  twenty  to  this  day, 
The  rock  has  served  in  this  peculiar  way. 

Here  endeth  the  first  lesson.     Turn  the  page, 
And  we  may  find  all  freshly  spread  before  us 

The  counter -charges  of  a  later  age 

Which  may,  by  contrast,  comfort  and  restore  us. 

Critics  in  war  with  critics  will  engage 
Long  as  the  centuries  go  rolling  o'er  us ; 

If  we  could  tarry  till  their  strife  were  ended, 

Our  Pilgrim  sires  would  surely  be  defended. 

These  counter -charges  which  we  have  in  hand 
Seem,  in  their  contrasts,  just  a  little  funny. 

The  Pilgrims,  now,  are  not  a  pious  band ; 

They  came,  it  seems,  intent  on  making  money. 

They  fancied  that  this  rough  New- England  land 
Might  prove  to  them  a  land  of  milk  and  honey ; 

And  so  they  ventured  o'er  a  stormy  ocean 

To  pay,  at  Mammon's  shrine,  their  pure  devotion. 

They  were  a  wandering  clan,  that  could  not  rest 
Or  live  contented  in  their  own  condition ; 

And  when  they  left  their  ancient  English  nest, 
They  only  showed  their  restless  disposition ; 

Ready  to  journey  east  or  journey  west, 
Upon  their  money-making  expedition ; 

They  tried  old  Holland,  and,  ignobly  failing, 

Away  to  Plymouth  Rock  they  went  a- sailing. 


RECONSTRUCTED   PILGRIM. 

But  know  ye  well,  Oh  critics,  ye  spend  your  strength 

for  nought ; 
All  harmless  fall  the  weapons  your  cunning  hands  have 

wrought ; 

The  men  ye  seek  to  injure  have  reached  a  height  sublime, 
Whereon  they  sit  secure  against  the  accidents  of  time : 
The  rolling  years  have  tried  them,  the  centuries  have 

passed, 
And  clothed  them  with  a  glory  that  shall  forever  last. 

The  wandering  birds  that  fly  afar  are  wise  to  know  their 
hour ;  [power, 

Seeking  the  fields  of  upper  air,  and  thwarting  human 
They  voyage  on  unguided  by  compass  or  by  chart, 
Along  these  clear  and  azure  heights,  safe  from  the  hunt 
er's  dart ; 

A  law  they  know  not  moves  them  straight  to  their  dis 
tant  nest, 
Unerringly  they  journey  and  find  their  promised  rest. 

So  the  old  patriarchs  journeyed,  moved  by  the  call  of 

God,  [trod : 

Earth's  wanderers,  utfknowing  the  pathway  which  they 

And  so  the  Pilgrims  journeyed,  leaving  their  native  land, 

Going  they  knew  not  whither,  by  some  divine  command ; 

With  faith  and  loving  patience  they  trod  their  weary 

way,  [day. 

And  so  their  names  stand  glorified  before  our  eyes  to- 

The  best  and  purest  wisdom  is  wisdom  of  the  heart, 
Untouched  by  human  cunning,  unstained  by  earthly  art ; 
He  that  by  craft  will  save  his  life  shall  lose  it  at  the  end, 
He  that  will  lose  his  life  shall  find  an  everlasting  friend  : 
God  has  his  chosen  children,  his  favorites  on  the  earth, 
Raised  out  of  toil  and  sorrow  by  an  immortal  birth. 


90  THE    BEWILDERED    PROPHET. 


THE  BEWILDERED  PROPHET. 

"  I  shall  see  him,  but  not  now." 

IT  is  sure,  and  mine  eye  shall  behold  him, 

But  not  in  these  days  that  are  nigh ; 
The  years  afar  off  shall  unfold  him, 

When  the  cycles  of  time  have  gone  by : 
Then  the  star  shall  gleam  out  in  its  splendor, 

The  star  that  from  Jacob  shall  rise ; 
And  Israel's  strength  and  defender 

Shall  appear  from  His  throne  in  the  skies. 

But  first  must  come  travail  and  labor, 

And  first  must  come  sorrow  and  toil, 
For  the  mountains  of  Sinai  and  Tabor 

Must  shed  down  their  wealth  on  the  soil : 
It  is  certain — the  dream  and  the  vision, 

When  the  ages  of  trial  are  past, 
For  it  waits — in  the  Vale  of  Decision, 

It  shall  come,  in  its  fulness,  at  last. 

From  the  top  of  the  rocks  I  espy  him, 

Through  the  mist  and  the  cloud  he  appears, 

From  the  height  of  the  hills  I  descry  him, 
Far  adown  through  the  shadowy  years  ; 


91 


And  below,  in  the  beautiful  valley, 
The  white  tents  of  Jacob  are  spread ; 

Who  can  number  the  hosts  as  they  rally? 

Who  can  look  on  their  strength  without  dread? 

Surely  God  is  upholding  the  nation, 

And  guarding  its  marvellous  birth, 
He  has  fixed  and  determined  its  station, 

Alone,  'mid  the  tribes  of  the  earth ; 
And  my  curse  has  returned  to  a  blessing, 

And  my  tongue,  that  was  strong,  is  made  weak, 
And  I  come,  in  my  struggle,  confessing 

That  I  know  not  the  words  which  I  speak. 

How  goodly  thy  tents  by  the  river ! 

How  fair  thy  pavilions  outspread ! 
And  can  I  my  message  deliver, 

And  pour  out  a  curse  on  thy  head? 
The  vision  is  sure — I  behold  him, 

But  not  in  these  days  that  are  nigh, 
The  years  afar  off  shall  unfold  him, 

And  the  star  shall  gleam  out  in  the  sky. 


"TELL  ABOUT." 

I  KNOW  a  fair- haired  child,  with  shining  eyes, 
Whose  little  feet  go  pattering  in  and  out, 

Seeking  for  some  one  who  will  make  her  wise, 
Her  every  question  ending,  "  Tell  about." 


92  "  TELL    ABOUT." 

Her  new-found  world  is  like  some  fairy  land, 
All  wonderful,  but  shadowed  o'er  with  doubt ; 

And  so  she  turns  for  light  on  every  hand, 

And  will  her  friends  just  please  to  "  tell  about"  ? 

When  grass  grows  green,  and  flowers  begin  to  spring, 
And  birds  are  singing  in  the  world  without, 

Her  airy  fancies  rise  on  playful  wing, 

These  sights  and  sounds  some  one  must  "  tell  about.' 

With  picture-book  in  hand,  her  busy  feet 

From  room  to  room  at  last  have  found  you  out, 

And  on  your  knee  she  asks  to  take  a  seat, 

While  this  loved  volume  will  you  "  tell  about "  ? 

When  God  and  heaven  are  mentioned  in  her  ear, 
She  stands  with  looks  half- wondering  and  devout, 

She  knows  not  whether  they  be  far  or  near, 
But  looking  up  she  whispers,  "  Tell  about." 

We  are  but  children  of  a  larger  age, 

And  better  taught  how  little  we  can  know, 

And  as  we  study  Nature's  wondrous  page 

Our  restless  thoughts  go  wandering  to  and  fro. 

The  mystery  of  earth  and  air  and  sea, 

The  sky  bestud  with  burning  worlds  of  light, 

Of  time  in  all  its  past  eternity, 

And  all  the  ranges  of  its  future  flight : 

The  mystery  of  God,  and  life,  and  death, 
The  world  within  us  and  the  world  without, 

Before  them  all  we  stand  with  bated  breath, 
Waiting  for  some  one  who  will  "  tell  about." 


HEAVEN  IS  FAR  AND  EARTH  IS  NEAR.     93 


HEAVEN  IS  FAR  AND  EARTH  IS  NEAR. 

WHEN  first  the  soul,  on  joyous  wings, 

Mounts  up  and  takes  its  heavenward  way, 
Like  the  glad  lark  it  soars  and  sings 

Before  the  shining  gates  of  day ; 
It  seems  set  free  from  earthly  thralls, 

From  its  old  bondage- house  of  fear; 
But  ah,  how  soon  it  faints  and  falls, 

For  heaven  is  far  and  earth  is  near ! 

Often  we  gain  some  lofty  height, 

Some  mount  of  God,  serene  and  still, 
Where  shines  a  pure  transfiguring  light, 

And  holy  thoughts  like  dews  distil ; 
And  here,  we  dream,  shall  be  our  stay, 

We'll  build  our  tabernacles  here; — 
Alas,  these  visions  glide  away, 

For  heaven  is  far  and  earth  is  near ! 

So  Bunyan's  pilgrims  toiled  of  old, 

Up  to  the  mountain- tops  of  rest, 
And  saw  afar  the  streets  of  gold, 

Saw  the  bright  mansions  of  the  blest ; 
And  from  these  heights  of  sweet  content, 

Where  all  around  was  calm  and  clear, 
Down  to  the  vales  of  sense  they  went, 

For  heaven  is  far  and  earth  is  near. 


94     "  THEY  THAT   WATCH  FOR  THE  MORNING.'1 

0  mystery  of  earth  and  sin! 

This  war  forever  round  the  soul ! 

1  find  a  law  of  God  within, 

But  the  old  law  will  still  control ; 
I  will  to  do,  and  do  it  not, 

For  earth-born  passions  interfere; 
I  struggle  upward  in  my  thought, 

But  heaven  is  far  and  earth  is  near. 


"  We  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight," 

And  faith  is  weak  and  sight  is  strong ; 
We  choose  the  good,  approve  the  right, 

And  wander  blindly  to  the  wrong  ; 
O  soul,  still  driven  and  tempest- tost, 

'Mid  good  and  evil,  hope  and  fear ! 
Christ  will  not  leave  thee  to  be  lost, 

Though  heaven  is  far  and  earth  is  near. 


"THEY  THAT  WATCH  FOR  THE 
MORNING." 

EARTH  lies  in  shadows  :  wanderers  of  the  night, 
We  walk  amid  a  dim  uncertain  light, 
Waiting  the  hour,  when  on  our  eager  sight 
Shall  break  the  radiant  morn. 


"  THEY  THAT  WATCH  FOR  THE  MORNING.  "  95 

Lost  in  the  gloom,  our  feet  have  strayed  afar ; 
Our  path  is  hid ;  we  know  not  where  we  are. 
Oh,  for  the  rising  of  that  herald  star 
"Which  ushers  in  the  morn ! 

Far  off,  we  hear  the  lonely  mountain  rill, 
While  dews  of  night  fall  on  us  ;   and  a  chill 
Comes  creeping  in  the  shadows  of  the  hill ; 
We  watch  and  wish  for  morn. 

Strange  voices  reach  us  from  the  forest  shade, 
Strange  unknown  sounds,  that  make  our  souls  afraid  ; 
We  move  in  silence,  trembling  and  dismayed, 
Yearning  to  hail  the  morn. 

Fear  gives  our  wild  bewildered  fancies  play,      [way — 
And  phantom  forms    throng   round   our   darksome 
Spectres,  that  vanish  with  the  light  of  day, 
The  dawning  of  the  morn. 

And  now  the  lightning  gleam  goes  flashing  by  ; 
Low  muttering  thunder  stirs  the  western  sky. 
Oh  for  some  refuge,  where  our  feet  may  fly, 
And  wait  the  coming  morn  ! 

When,  when  shall  we  arise  and  night  be  gone? 
When  shall  these  gloomy  shadows  be  withdrawn, 
And-  on  us  burst  the  effulgence  of  the  dawn, 
The  bright  immortal  morn? 

Oh,  joy  to  reach  that  land,  which  knows  no  night, 
To  stand,  at  last,  on  that  celestial  height 
Where  God  shall  be  our  everlasting  light. 

Break,  break,  thou  heavenly  morn ! 


96  THE    UNKNOWN    LAND. 


THE  UNKNOWN  LAND. 

O  LAND  unknown !  Beyond  our  mortal  sight, 
Wrapt  round  with  gloomy  shadows  of  the  night ; 
Our  spirits  dread,  yet  long  to  wing  their  flight 
To  thy  mysterious  shores. 

O  land  unknown !  We  strain  our  eager  eye ; 
Into  the  dark  we  send  our  pleading  cry ; 
We  call  in  vain ;  no  voices  make  reply 

From  thy  mysterious  shores. 

O  land  unknown!  A  never-ending  train 
In  stern  procession  from  these  realms  of  pain, 
Moves  slowly  on,  but  comes  not  back  again 
From  thy  mysterious  shores. 

O  land  unknown !  Art  thou  far  off,  or  near  ? 
We  only  know  our  loved  ones  disappear, 
And  the  old  voices  we  no  more  can  hear 

From  thy  mysterious  shores. 

O  land  unknown !  By  the  dividing  stream 
We  stand  and  gaze,  and  sometimes  fondly  dream 
The  clouds  will  part  and  yield  one  transient  gleam 
Of  thy  mysterious  shores. 

O  land  unknown !  That  day  of  days  draws  nigh, 
Which  shall  unlock  this  hidden  mystery, 
And  bid  our  dreading,  longing  spirits  fly 
To  thy  mysterious  shores ! 


THE   FIRST    THANKSGIVING.  97 


THE  FIRST   THANKSGIVING. 

1621. 

EDWARD  WINSLOW'S  STORY. 

WE  had  gathered  in  our  harvests, 

And  stored  the  yellow  grain, 
For  God  had  sent  the  sunshine, 

And  sent  the  plenteous  rain ; 
Our  barley-land  and  corn-land 

Had  yielded  up  their  store, 
And  the  fear  and  dread  of  famine 

Oppressed  our  homes  no  more. 

As  the  chosen  tribes  of  Israel, 

In  the  far  years  of  old, 
When  the  summer  fruits  were  garnered, 

And  before  the  winter's  cold, 
Kept  their  festal  week  with  gladness, 

With  songs  and  choral  lays, 
So  we  kept  our  first  thanksgiving 

In  the  hazy  autumn  days. 

Through  the  mild  months  of  summer, 
We  had  built  us  pleasant  homes, 

So  that  now  we  fear  no  danger, 

When  the  angry  winter  comes  ; 
I 


98  THE   FIRST    THANKSGIVING. 

We  can  sit  by  cheerful  firesides, 
And  watch  the  nickering  ray, 

When  the  storms  of  ocean  gather, 
And  howl  around  the  bay. 

We  think  with  grief  and  sadness, 

Of  the  gloomy  months  gone  by, 
When  want  was  in  our  dwellings, 

And  we  saw  our  loved  ones  die ; 
But  when  our  well-  filled  garners 

Moved  all  our  hearts  to  praise, 
We  kept  our  glad  thanksgiving 

In  the  soft  October  days. 

We  sent  our  keen- eyed  gunners 

To  the  forest- haunts  for  game; 
And  with  ample  wealth  of  wild-fowl, 

Rejoicing  home  they  came  ; 
And  our  good  Indian  neighbors, 

With  whom  we  live  in  peace, 
Brought  in  their  gift  of  hunted  deer, 

Our  larder  to  increase. 

And  Massasoit,  the  chieftain, 

Was  present  with  us  then  ; 
He  came  to  share  our  banquet, 

With  his  ninety  dusky  men  ; 
So  for  three  days  we  feasted, 

With  sports  and  games  and  plays, 
And  kept  our  first  thanksgiving 

In  the  fair  autumnal  days. 

The  winds  breathed  gently  on  us, 
From  out  the  mild  southwest ; 


THE    FIRST    THANKSGIVING.  99 

They  come,  the  Indians  tell  us, 

From  the  islands  of  the  blest ; 
And  the  sun  and  moon  looked  kindly 

From  the  still  heights  above, 
As  if  to  cheer  our  banquet, 

And  bless  our  feast  of  love. 

And  our  brave  Captain  Standish, 

Brought  up  'mid  war's  alarms, 
Led  out  his  small  but  trusty  band, 

His  sturdy  men  at  arms ; 
He  showed  the  Indian  warriors 

Our  military  ways, 
For  so  we  kept  thanksgiving 

In  those  lazy  autumn  days. 

We  thought  of  d^ar  old  England, 

Dear,  though  to  us  unkind ; 
Of  the  fond  familiar  faces, 

That  we  had  left  behind ; 
But  England  cannot  wean  us 

Back  from  our  forest  home, 
Where  we  lay  our  sure  foundations 

For  the  better  years  to  come. 

So  we  passed  the  days  in  gladness, 

In  social  joy  and  mirth, 
As  those  who  have  their  dwelling-place 

As  yet  upon  the  earth; 
But  to  the  Lord  our  God,  we  brought 

Our  gifts  of  prayer  and  praise ; 
So  we  kept  our  first  thanksgiving 

In  the  dreamy  autumn  days. 


100  THE    MYSTERY    OF    THE    STARS. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  STARS. 

WHEN  night,  that  veils  the  earth,  unveils  the  sky, 
And  opens  worlds  unnumbered  to  the  eye, 

Kindling  with  light  the  spreading  vault  o'er- arching ; 
The  starry  groups  which  stud  the  heavenly  space, 
That  shone  on  patriarchs  of  the  early  race, 
Are  shining  yet,  and  with  majestic  pace 

Along  their  ancient  pathways  still  are  marching. 

Orion,  in  the  clear  autumnal  nights, 

Comes  proudly  climbing  up  the  eastern  heights, 

His  silvery  bands  in  all  their  beauty  gleaming; 
Arcturus  greets  us  with  his  shining  face, 
The  Pleiades  still  wear  their  native  grace, 
The  North  Star  hangs  above  "  the  empty  place," 

Where  the  mysterious  Arctic  fires  are  streaming. 

But,  oh,  what  thought  can  sound  these  boundless  deeps, 
Where  awful  silence  her  grim  empire  keeps, 

And  where  the  worlds  on  fiery  wheels  are  speeding  ? 
With  wondering,  longing  eyes  we  stand  and  gaze, 
With  seers  and  sages  of  primeval  days, 
And  while  our  hearts  go  out  in  hymns  of  praise, 

Our  inmost  souls  for  light,  for  light  are  pleading. 

How  lone  and  desolate  these  fields  of  air, 
Except  an  ever- living  God  be  there 


CHRISTIAN    OLD    AG\.  10F 


To  rule  and  guide  through  all  these  boundless  ranges  : 
A  King,  -with  power  to  act  a  kingly  part, 
A  heavenly  Father  with  a  father's  heart, 
To  feel  His  children's  every  grief  and  smart, 

And  bear  them  up  through  all  life's  weary  changes. 

If,  on  the  wings  of  morning,  we  can  rise, 
And  range  the  outmost  limits  of  the  skies, 

Where  the  long   wandering    stars    are    homeward 

wheeling, 

And  feel  that  God  attends  us  on  our  flight, 
These  dreary  solitudes  are  filled  with  light, 
The  heavens  and  earth  are  but  a  mirror  bright, 

God's  greatness,  wisdom,  power  and  love  revealing. 


CHRISTIAN  OLD  AGE. 

WHY  should  we  longer  wait? 
These  mortal  years  grow  weary  in  their  round; 
They  wheel  and  roll,  from  goal  to  outmost  bound, 
With  one  recurring  tide  of  sight  and  sound, — 
Why  should  we  wait? 

Why  should  we  longer  wait? 
The  shifting  seasons  still  will  come  and  go, 
The  sun  will  scorch  in  summer — and  the  snow 
Will  load  the  air,  what  time  the  north  winds  blow,- 
Why  should  we  wait? 


102  CHRISTIAN   OLD   AGE. 

Why  should  we  longer  wait  ? 
The  things  that  are,  are  things  that  have  gone  by, 
There  are  no  wonders  more  of  earth  or  sky ; 
Let  us  depart — the  time  has  come  to  die, — 
Why  should  we  wait? 

Why  should  we  longer  wait  ? 
Around  us  breaks  the  old  unceasing  din, 
The  empty  war  of  selfishness  and  sin ;  [win, — 

Groans   from   the   fallen — shouts   from   those  who 
Why  should  we  wait  ? 

Why  should  we  longer  wait? 
The  senses  move  within  a  narrow  bound, 
We  catch  dim  glimpses  of  a  world  around, 
And  life  goes  on  like  some  confusing  sound, — 
Why  should  we  wait? 

Why  should  we  longer  wait? 

For  earth-born  hopes  no  more  can  have  their  play, 
In  lonely  nights,  we  wait  the  breaking  day, 
Nor  do  we  wish  the  morning  hours  to  stay, — 
Why  should  we  wait  ? 

Why  should  we  longer  wait? 
Those  we  have  loved  have  journeyed  on  before ; 
They  wait  our  coming  on  the  further  shore, 
And  Earth  is  vacant  for  us,  evermore, — 
Why  should  we  wait? 

Let  us  arise  and  go ! 

The  night  is  well-nigh  spent — the  day  at  hand! 
We  catch  some  whisperings  from  that  other  land, 
We  hear  the  music  from  some  angel- band, — 
Let  us  arise ! 


THANKSGIVING.  103 

Let  us  arise  and  go ! 

All  that  we  are  to  Christ  our  Lord  belongs, 
And  we  would  join  with  the  unnumbered  throngs, 
That  girt  his  throne  with  everlasting  songs, — 
Let  us  arise ! 

Let  us  depart  from  hence ! 
We  have  outlived  our  little  earthly  day ; 
All  things  are  ready — we  would  flee  away 
Unto  that  land,  where  sin  has  no  more  sway, — 
Let  us  depart ! 


THANKSGIVING. 

THE  daylight  hours  grow  brief  and  dim, 

And  quickly  merge  themselves  in  night, 
The  sharp  wind  sings  its  mournful  hymn, 

The  signs,  in  heaven  and  earth,  are  right ; 
I  heard  the  wild  geese  chant  their  wail, 

From  the  cold  fields  of  upper  air, 
Drifting  along  the  northern  gale, 

To  sunny  lakes  and  islands  fair. 

The  signs  are  right.  The  shivering  sheep 
Stand  huddled  by  the  sheltering  wall ; 

The  birds  have  sought  their  wintry  sleep, 
And  lowing  cattle  wait  the  stall ; 


104  THANKSGIVING. 

The  dead  leaves  dance  their  mystic  round, 
Whirled  by  the  wind -gusts  fierce  and  wild ; 

And  dry  stalks  nutter  o'er  the  ground, 
Where  late  the  yellow  harvests  smiled. 

The  signs  are  right.    We  heard  the  roar, 

Borne  inward  from  the  ocean  deeps, 
And  mad  waves  broke  along  the  shore, 

And  dashed  against  the  rocky  steeps  : 
But  household  fires  burn  clear  and  bright, 

And  rest  comes  after  summer  toil, 
And  well- filled  garners  give  delight, 

Treasures  of  "  corn  and  wine  and  oil." 

It  comes,  New  England's  festal  day, 

A  link  in  that  long  golden  chain, 
Which  stretches  on  its  shining  way, 

To  bring  old  memories  back  again ; 
In  all  our  conflicts  and  our  fears, 

When  days  were  dark,  and  days  were  bright, 
This  day,  through  our  historic  years, 

Runs  like  a  magic  thread  of  light. 

There  rises  now  before  mine  eye, 

In  pictured  beauty  soft  and  clear, 
A  vision  of  the  days  gone  by, 

When  life  Avas  young  and  joy  was  near : 
A  weary  tramp  among  the  hills  ; 

A  piercing  wind  with  blinding  dust ; 
A  hope  that  scorned  these  outer  ills, 

And  looked  beyond  in  boundless  trust ; — 


THANKSGIVING.  105 

A  farm-house  with  its  ponderous  frame ; 

A  grandsire  with  his  silvery  hair, 
Sitting  before  the  generous  flame, 

In  his  antique  and  ample  chair ; 
A  chimney  corner  large  and  warm, 

Where  a  dear  mother  sat  of  old ; 
Here  was  a  refuge  from  the  storm, 

A  shelter  from  the  biting  cold. 

And  all  around  are  signs  of  cheer, 

Pure  incense  and  an  odor  sweet, 
And  kindred  hearts  are  gathered  here, 

And  joy  that  comes  where  kindred  meet. 
Now  let  the  hovering  snow- clouds  lower; 

Let  winds  blow  east  or  winds  blow  west ; 
They  cannot  mar  this  charmed  hour, 

They  cannot  hurt  this  household  nest. 

Then  keep  the  good  old  festal  day ; 

Sing  the  old  songs  the  fathers  sung ; 
Around  your  altars  kneel  to  pray ; 

Let  praises  rise  from  joyful  tongue. 
God  moves  in  all  the  rolling  year, 

In  clouds  and  tempests,  sun  and  rain ; 
He  bids  the  tender  grass  appear, 

And  loads  the  autumn  fields  with  grain, 


106  THE   BLACK   VALLEY    RAILROAD. 


THE  BLACK  VALLEY  RAILROAD. 

You  have  heard  of  the  ride  of  John  Gilpin, 

That  captain  so  jocund  and  gay, 
How  he  rode  down  to  Edmonton  Village, 

In  a  very  remarkable  way. 

You  have  heard  of  the  ride  of  Mazeppa, 
Bound  fast  to  his  wing-footed  steed, 

How  he  coursed  through  the  fields  and  the  forests, 
At  a  very  remarkable  speed. 

But  I  sing  of  a  trip  more  exciting, 

In  a  song  which  I  cannot  restrain  ; 

Of  a  ride  down  the  Black  Valley  Railroad, 
Of  a  ride  on  the  Black  Valley  train. 

The  setting-out  place  for  the  journey 

Is  Sippington  station,  I  think, 
Where  the  engines  for  water  take  whisky, 

And  the  people  take — something  to  drink. 

From  collisions  you  need  fear  no  danger, 

No  trains  are  ever  run  back, 
They  all  go  one  way — to  perdition, 

Provided  they  keep  on  the  track. 


THE   BLACK    VALLEY   RAILROAD.  107 

By  the  time  we  reach.  Medicine  village, 
The  passengers  find  themselves  sick ; 

Have  leg-ache,  or  back-ache,  or  head-ache, 
Or  some  ache  that  strikes  to  the  quick. 

We  are  pious  and  hold  by  the  Scripture, 

With  Paul  the  Apostle  agree 
To  take  "  wine"  instead  of  much  "  water," 

For  our  "  often  infirmity," 

In  fact,  we  improve  on  the  reading, 

By  just  a  slight  change  in  the  text, 

Say  " often,"  where  the  Scripture  says  "little," 
And  leave  "  little  "  for  what  may  come  next. 

We  break  up  at  Tippleton  station, 

To  try  and  get  rid  of  our  pain ; 
At  Topersville  also  we  tarry, 

And  do  the  same  over  again. 

Our  spirits  indeed  may  be  willing, 

But  very  weak  is  the  flesh ; 
So,  oft  as  we  stop  for  five  minutes, 

We  use  all  the  time  to  refresh. 

Now  we  come  to  the  great  central  station, 

The  last  stopping  place  on  the  line,        [house 

Drunkard's  Curve — where  is  kept  the  chief  store- 
Of  rum,  whisky,  brandy  and  wine. 

From  this  place  on  to  Destruction ; 

The  train  makes  no  break  or  delay, 
And  those  who  may  wish  to  stop  sooner 

Are  kindly  thrown  out  by  the  way. 


108  THE   BLACK   VALLEY   RAILROAD. 

A  full  supply  of  bad  whisky 

For  our  engine  is  taken  in  here ; 

And  a  queer  looking  fellow  from  Hades 
Steps  on  for  our  engineer. 

From  Drunkard's  Curve  to  Destruction, 

The  train  is  simply  express, 
And  will  not  be  slowed  or  halted 

For  any  flag  of  distress. 

And  so  when  all  things  are  ready, 

From  Drunkard's  Curve  we  set  out: 

Let  me  give  you  some  flying  glimpses 
Of  the  places  along  the  route. 

First,  Rowdyville  claims  our  attention ; 

Then  Quarrelton  comes  into  view ; 
Then  Riotville  breaks  on  the  vision, 

And  the  filthy  Beggartown  too. 

As  we  rush  by  the  village  of  Woeland, 

Three  wretches  are  thrown  from  the  train  ; 

We  can  see  them  rolled  over  and  over, 

Through  the  darkness,  the  mud  and  the  rain. 

Our  engineer  chuckles  and  dances 

In  the  wild  lurid  flashes  he  throws  ; 

Hotter  blaze  the  red  fires  of  his  furnace, 
As  on  into  blackness  he  goes. 

O  the  sounds  that  we  hear  in  the  darkness, 
The  laughter  and  crying  and  groans, 

The  ravings  of  anger  and  madness, 
The  sobbings  and  pitiful  moans  ! 


TIME    FOR    THANKSGIVING.  109 

For  now  Ave  have  entered  the  regions 

Where  all  things  horrible  dwell, 
Where  the  shadows  are  peopled  with  goblins, 

With  the  fiends  and  the  furies  of  hell. 

In  this  deep  and  stygian  darkness, 

Lost  spirits  have  made  their  abode ; 

It  is  plain — we  are  near  to  Destruction, 
Very  near  to  the  end  of  the  road. 

Would  you  like,  my  young  friends,  to  take  passage 
To  this  region  of  horror  and  pain? 

Here  stretches  the  Black  Valley  Railroad, 
And  here  stands  the  Black  Valley  train. 


TIME   FOR   THANKSGIVING. 

WHEN  the  cold  winds  out  of  the  north 

With  a  mournful  song  go  by ; 
When  the  forests  are  leafless  and  gaunt, 

And  the  pastures  and  meadows  are  dry ; 
When  the  wild  geese  have  taken  their  flight, 

And  gone  to  a  sunnier  home ; 
When  the  day  passes  quick  into  night, 

It  is  time  for  Thanksgiving  to  come. 

When  the  pumpkins,  and  apples,  and  corn, 
Are  all  gathered  in  from  the  cold ; 

When  the  cribs  unto  bursting  are  filled, 
With  the  ripe  ears,  yellow  as  gold ; 


110  TIME    FOR    THANKSGIVING. 

When  the  oxen,  the  cows  and  the  sheep, 
No  more  on  the  hillsides  must  roam  ; 

When  it  rain  s,  or  it  hails,  or  it  snows, 
It  is  time  for  Thanksgiving  to  come. 

When  the  hazy,  the  still,  dreamy  days 

Of  the  Indian  summer  are  o'er ; 
When  the  squirrels  have  ransacked  the  woods, 

And  laid  up  the  nuts,  in  great  store ; 
When  the  earth  is  all  dreary  and  waste, 

And  the  skies  look  scowling  and  glum  ; 
When  the  dead  leaves  go  whirling  along, 

It  is  time  for  Thanksgiving  to  come. 

When  John,  who  is  learning  a  trade, 

And  Julia,  away  at  her  school, 
And  Dick,  at  his  college  and  books, 

And  Jane,  at  her  needle  and  spool ; 
With  Mary,  and  Charley  and  Joe, 

Are  all  packing  off  to  go  home, 
Afoot,  on  the  coach,  in  the  cars, 

It  is  time  for  Thanksgiving  to  come. 

When  in  cottage  and  farm-house  afar, 

As  gather  the  shadows  of  night, 
The  fires  with  new  energy  burn, 

And  gleam  with  a  wonderful  light ; 
For  they  welcome  the  wanderers  back, 

They  beckon  in  many  who  roam  ; 
Then  blest  be  the  day,  the  joyous  day, 

The  time  for  Thanksgiving  is  come. 


MY    LITTLE    PLAYMATE.  Ill 


MY  LITTLE   PLAYMATE. 

I  AM  a  grandsire,  journeying  close 

On  threescore  years  and  ten ; 
And  when  my  daily  tasks  are  done, 

And  laid  aside  my  pen, 
I  call  my  little  playmate  in 

Now  passing  on  to  three, 
For  I  have  need  as  much  of  her 

As  she  has  need  of  me. 

She  draws  me  from  the  world  of  fact, 

With  all  its  selfish  strife, 
She  breaks  the  prosy  lines  of  thought, 

That  make  up  common  life  ; 
She  lures  me  to  her  little  world, 

Where  airy  creatures  dwell. 
Where  all  things  dance  in  joy  and  light 

Beneath  some  magic  spell. 

She  wakes  again  those  dreamy  songs 

That  never  yet  were  sung, 
Which  thrill  through  happy  little  hearts, 

But  not  through  human  tongue ; 
She  carols  like  a  morning  lark 

To  usher  in  the  day, 
And  bring  back  memories  from  a  land 

That  lieth  far  away. 


112  MY   LITTLE    PLAYMATE. 

Her  roundelays  and  jingles  make 

Such  music  in  my  ear, 
With  all  her  tricksy  words  and  ways, 

I  cannot  choose  but  hear : 
We  leave  all  other  verse  aside, 

For  that  small  classic  lore 
Which  Mother  Goose  has  garnered  up 

In  her  undying  store : 

The  naughty  ways  of  Johnny  Greene, 

The  virtuous  Johnny  Stout ; 
The  boy  in  blue  who  lay  asleep 

When  cow  and  sheep  were  out ; 
The  robin  sitting  in  the  barn, 

With  head  beneath  his  wing, 
Because  the  snow  is  on  the  ground, 

And  he  is  cold,  poor  thing ; 

The  accident  to  Jack  and  Jill, 

The  hurrying  little  Jane, 
The  man  who  scratched  out  both  his  eyes, 

And  scratched  them  in  again ; 
The  active  cow  that  jumped  the  moon, 

The  bull  that  tolled  the  bell, 
These  are  a  few, — but  many  more, 

Too  numerous  to  tell. 

And  then  we  play  at  coop  and  seek  ; 

The  mystery  is  small ; 
We  hide  behind  the  nearest  chair, 

Or  in  the  open  hall ; 


A    SONG    FOR    MAY    DAY.  113 

And  every  time  that  search  is  made 

Within  this  same  small  round, 
The  happy  shout  of  joy  goes  up 

Because  the  lost  is  found. 

Oh,  let  me  never  grow  too  old 

To  join  in  merry  glee 
With  any  bright  and  laughing  child 

That  climbs  upon  my  knee ; 
Let  me  still  keep  the  sportive  mind 

Until  my  dying  day, 
For  what  is  life,  in  all  its  length, 

Without  the  children's  play? 


A   SONG  FOR  MAY  DAY. 

"  FOR  lo !  the  winter  is  past, 

The  singing  of  birds  has  come ;" 

Softly,  my  friend,  not  quite  so  fast, 

Stay  close  by  your  fire  at  home. 

"  Come,  let  us  go  forth  to  the  fields, 

For  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard ;" 
I  have  tried  it  myself  and  know  what  it  yields 
You  will  wish  you  never  had  stirred. 

"  I  know  of  a  beautiful  bank, 

"Whereon  the  wild  flowers  grow ;" 
Go  search  for  it  then,  through  meadows  dank, 
You  will  find  it  a  bank  of  snow. 

8 


114  A    SONG   FOR   MAY   DAY. 

"  How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  spring ! 

How  joyous  the  coming  of  May !" 
That  is  the  way  the  poets  sing, 
And  have  for  many  a  day. 

I  have  heard  this  piping  of  old, 

And  have  often  been  fooled  by  the  tune 

I  have  caught  me  many  an  ugly  cold, 
All  for  not  waiting  till  June. 

You  cannot  render  it  warm, 

By  buying  of  green- house  flowers  ; 

You  cannot  break  an  easterly  storm, 
By  prating  of  sunny  bowers. 

So  put  up  your  chaplets  so  gay, 
All  made  of  paper  and  strings  ; 

And  patiently  wait  for  the  better  day 
Which  June  in  its  mildness  brings. 

Build  you  a  wholesome  fire, 

And  let  the  sun  into  your  room  ; 

And  read  of  May  to  your  heart's  desire, 
With  an  air-tight  to  soften  its  gloom. 


LYRICAL. 


FIRST  PSALM. 

[Closely  rendered.]  L.  M. 

BLEST  is  the  man,  who  walketh  not 

Where  men  of  evil  counsel  meet, 
Who  stands  not  in  the  sinner's  way, 

Nor  sitteth  in  the  scorner's  seat. 

But  in  Jehovah's  perfect  law 

He  ever  findeth  his  delight ; 
Thereon  he  meditates  by  day, 

And  meditates  thereon  by  night. 

He  shall  be  like  some  goodly  tree, 

Planted  where  streams  of  water  flow; 
Which  bringeth  forth  its  timely  fruit, 
Whose  leaf  no  blasting  heat  shall  know. 

His  toil,  prosperity  shall  crown ; 

While  the  ungodly  toil  in  vain : 
Their  work  is  like  the  fleeting  chaff, 

Which  the  wind  scatters  o'er  the  plain. 

So  the  ungodly  shall  not  stand, 

When  judgment  comes  to  try  their  way  5 

In  the  assembly  of  the  just 

The  guilty  sinner  shall  not  stay. 


116  FOREFATHERS'  DAY. 

The  Lord  keeps  watch  about  the  path, 
And  knows  the  way  the  righteous  go ; 

But  the  ungodly  man  shall  fail, 
His  way  shall  perish  here  below. 


FOREFATHERS'  DAY. 

Portuguese  Hymn. 

O  STRONG  is  our  God  in  the  might  of  his  sway, 
He  speaks,  and  the  seas  and  the  tempests  obey ; 
He  guides  the  frail  bark  on  its  perilous  path, 
And  holds  back  the  surges  that  break  in  their  wrath. 

O  strong  is  our  God,  for  He  casteth  down  kings, 
But  broods  o'er  the  humble  with  sheltering  wings  ; 
He  shames  and  dishonors  the  pride  of  the  throne, 
But  lifts  up  the  lowly  and  makes  them  His  own. 

O  strong  is  our  God,  for  this  realm  of  the  west 
He  guarded  and  kept  for  a  refuge  and  rest, 
He  gave  to  our  fathers  these  fountains  and  rills, 
The  wealth  of  the  valleys  and  strength  of  the  hills. 

O  strong  is  our  God,  and  what  song  shall  unfold 
The  wonders  He  wrought  for  our  fathers  of  old? 
Through  sorrow  and  gladness,  in  sunshine  and  storm, 
Their  faith  still  beheld  His  invisible  form. 

O  strong  is  our  God,  and  the  nations  are  strong 
That  bow  in  His  temples  with  worship  and  song ; 
The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  the  strength  of  the  State, 
And  blest  are  the  men  at  His  altars  who  wait. 


HYMN    FOR    PEACE.  117 


HYMN  FOR  PEACE. 

Keller's  American  Hymn. 
CALM  on  the  hills  of  the  east  was  the  night, 

Softly  the  dew  fell  on  valley  and  plain, 
Bright  was  the  star  with  its  mystical  light, 
Through  the  still  air  came  the  angels'  refrain, 
Song,  which  the  hills  caught  and  echoed  again : 
'  Glory  to  God,  where  He  dwells  in  His  height, 

Peace  and  good  will  among  men  shall  remain," 
Song  of  all  songs,  on  that  wonderful  night. 

Earth,  thou  art  weary  with  tumult  and  war ; 

Armies  march  o'er  thee  with  desolate  tread ; 
Weeping  and  moaning  are  heard  from  afar, 

Groans  from  the  dying  and  grief  for  the  dead, 

Households  in  anguish  bemoaning  their  dead : 
Earth,  thou  art  worn  with  this  carnage  and  jar, 

Why  should  thine  empires  sit  trembling  with  dread  ? 
Shake  from  thy  shoulders  these  burdens  of  war. 

Lo,  the  day  breaks,  seen  by  prophets  of  old, 
Day,  when  the  noise  of  the  battle  shall  cease ; 

Lo,  the  day  dawns  by  the  angels  foretold, 
Christ  shall  be  king  o'er  an  empire  of  peace : 
Nations  shall  walk  in  the  sunlight  of  peace: 

So  shall  come  on  the  fair  ages  of  gold, 
So  shall  the  kingdom  and  glory  increase ; 

Lift  then  the  song  of  that  midnight  of  old. 


118          SAFETY  OF  THE  STATE. 


SAFETY  OF  THE  STATE. 

C.  M.  Double. 

THE  little  springs  and  sparkling  rills 

In  lonely  places  hide ; 
They  run  among  the  ancient  hills, 

And  through  the  shadows  glide ; 
Their  birth-place  is  the  wilderness  ; 

From  mountain  wilds  they  go, 
By  many  winding  paths,  to  bless 

The  thirsty  vales  below. 

God  guards  these  little  mountain  springs, 

Nor  lets  their  channels  dry ; 
He  hovers  on  his  cloudy  wings 

From  out  the  stormy  sky ; 
He  giveth  rain,  and  snow  like  wool, 

And  feeds  this  ceaseless  flow, 
To  make  the  lowlands  beautiful, 

And  waving  harvests  grow. 

The  strength  that  makes  a  nation  great, 

In  secret  is  supplied  j 
The  energies  that  build  the  State, 

In  humble  virtues  hide ; 
From  Christian  homes  among  the  hills, 

The  streams  of  influence  flow, — 
The  force  that  fights  with  earthly  ills, 

And  overcomes  the  foe. 


THE   GOOD   MAN'S    DEATH.  119 

And  if  these  little  fountains  fail, 

And  little  streamlets  dry, 
No  art  or  cunning  can  avail ; 

The  nation's  self  must  die: 
But  if  the  mountain  streams  are  pure, 

And  constant  in  their  flow, 
The  nation's  heritage  is  sure, 

In  all  the  plains  "below. 


THE  GOOD  MAN'S  DEATH. 

L.M. 

Go  take  thy  rest :  the  day  is  done, 
And  all  its  toil  and  burden  o'er, 

No  more  the  heat  of  burning  sun, 

The  pelting  storm  shall  break  no  more. 

Go  take  thy  rest :  a  good  man  dies, 
And  yields  his  spirit  back  to  God ; 

But  on  his  path  a  radiance  lies, 
A  light  o'er  all  the  fields  he  trod. 

Go  take  thy  rest :  the  night  comes  on, 
And  stars  shine  out  along  the  sky ; 

But  night  foretells  a  fairer  dawn, 
Whene'er  the  good  and  faithful  die. 


120       DEDICATION   OF   THE    SCHOOL-HOUSE. 


DEDICATION  OF  THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

America. 

THIS  labor  of  our  hands, 
Which  now  in  fulness  stands, 

To  Thee  we  bring : 
God,  whom  our  fathers  sought, 
Great  Source  of  light  and  thought, 
For  Thee  our  hands  have  wrought 

This  offering. 

Not  for  vain  pomp  and  show, 
Did  we  our  care  bestow, 

These  walls  to  rear : 
But  that  our  sons  may  rise, 
"With  clear  discerning  eyes, 
And  daughters  may  be  wise 

Thy  name  to  fear. 

Here  lead  and  guide  our  youth, 
In  paths  of  grace  and  truth, 

And  make  them  strong ; 
That  they  may  still  abide 
Firmly  on  virtue's  side, 
Nor  turn,  in  scorn  and  pride, 

To  shame  and  wrong. 


SABBATH-SCHOOL  CELEBRATION 

Fixed  on  this  chosen  soil, 
This  crown  of  all  our  -toil, 

Long  may  it  stand 
In  finished  strength  and  grace, 
To  form  our  rising  race, 
To  cheer  our  dwelling-place, 

And  bless  our  land. 


SABBATH-SCHOOL  CELEBRATION. 

L.  M. 

ALONG  the  track  of  vanished  years, 

Through  storm  and  sunshine,  cold  and  heat, 

To-day  our  fancy  wakes  and  hears 
The  happy  tread  of  little  feet. 

Before  us  pass  the  youthful  throngs, 

Walking  in  Zion's  quiet  ways  ; 
We  catch  the  pleasant  Sabbath  songs, 

Rising  to  heaven  on  wings  of  praise. 

And  back,  upon  our  listening  ear, 
Comes  that  low  murmur,  ever  sweet, 

When  youthful  voices,  soft  and  clear, 
The  Saviour's  blessed  words  repeat. 

In  pastures  green,  by  waters  still, 
Through  fields  in  living  beauty  drest, 

He  takes  us  up  to  Zion's  hill, 
His  home  of  everlasting  rest. 


122  OMNISCIENCE. 


OMNISCIENCE. 

Psalm  139.  7s  &  6s. 

O  GOD,  thine  eye  all- seeing 

Watches  and  knows  my  way ; 
To  thee  my  inmost  being 

Stands  open  day  by  day ; 
My  sitting,  my  uprising, 

Are  ever  in  thy  sight, 
And  vain  is  my  disguising 

Beneath  the  shades  of  night. 

If  thy  pure  precepts  scorning, 

I  haste  afar  to  flee, 
If  on  the  wings  of  morning 

I  seek  the  utmost  sea ; 
Up  to  the  heavens  ascending ; 

Hiding  in  depths  below ; 
Still  on  my  step  attending, 

Thou  watchest  where  I  go. 

From  Thee,  the  all- discerning, 

Where  can  frail  mortals  hide? 
Where,  from  Thy  presence  turning, 

Shall  guilty  souls  abide? 
Before  me  and  behind  me 

Thy  form  is  ever  nigh, 
In  darkness  thou  dost  find  me, 

As  in  the  noon- day  sky. 


OUK   NATIVE   LAND.  123 

Search  me,  0  God,  and  know  me, 

Try  me  and  know  my  heart ; 
My  inward  evil  show  me, 

And  bid  my  sin  depart ; 
Still  watch  and  walk  beside  me, 

Lest  from  thy  truth  I  stray, 
And  let  thy  right  hand  guide  me 

The  everlasting  way. 


OUR  NATIVE  LAND. 

Keller's  American  Hymn. 
LAND  of  our  sires  and  the  hope  of  the  free, 

Land  which  the  God  of  our  fathers  hath  blest, 
On  through  the  ages  to  come,  shalt  thou  be 

Home,  where  the  exiled  and  weary  find  rest : 

Home,  where  the  storm -tost  and  weary  find  rest: 
Open  thy  gates  to  the  ships  of  the  sea, 

Beckon  the  wanderers  in  to  the  west, 
Open  thy  gates,  O  thou  land  of  the  free ! 

God,  in  the  past,  has  encamped  round  thy  way, 

Guarded  thy  footsteps  with  wisdom  and  might ; 
Led  thee  with  pillar  of  cloud  through  the  day, 

Led  thee  with  pillar  of  fire  through  the  night ; 

Kept  thee  in  battle  and  tempest  and  night : 
Still  let  the  nation  acknowledge  His  sway, 

Still  let  the  people  be  strong  in  His  might, 
God  shall  encamp  round  thy  dangerous  way. 


124  ZION'S  GLORY. 

Build  thy  strong  empire  from  sea  unto  sea, 
Mountain  and  valley  shall  smile  in  thy  light ; 

Build  upon  truth  this  abode  of  the  free, 

Then  shall  thine  empire  stand  fast  in  its  might, 
Then  shall  thine  empire  wax  great  in  its  might ; 

Blazoned  on  all  thy  fair  banners  shall  be, 
Liberty,  guarded  by  justice  and  right : 

Stretch  then  thine  empire  from  sea  unto  sea. 


ZION'S   GLORY. 

ARISE  and  shine  in  gladness, 

O  Zion,  loved  of  old ! 
Long  were  thy  years  of  sadness, 

Thy  pains  and  toils  untold ; 
Most  wonderful  thy  story, 

Through  all  the  ages  past : 
But  God  will  make  his  glory 

To  shine  o'er  thee  at  last. 

Strong  are  thy  deep  foundations, 

Thy  walls  stand  fast  in  might, 
And  far  off  Gentile  nations 

Shall  call  thee  their  delight. 
Thy  fame  the  earth  shall  cover, 

From  east  to  utmost  west, 
And  round  thee  tribes  shall  hover, 

As  birds  about  their  nest. 


ZION'S    GLORY.  125 

All  lands  shall  yield  their  treasure, 

All  islands  of  the  sea, 
In  full  o'erflowing  measure, 

And  pour  it  out  to  thee. 
The  kings  of  earth  shall  bring  thee 

Their  ancient  stores  of  gold, 
And  merchant  princes  fling  thee 

The  hoarded  wealth  of  old. 

Fair  Sheba,  which  entices 

The  kingdoms  with  her  stores, 
Shall  bring  her  wealth  of  spices, 

Her  gems  and  costly  ores  ; 
And  Midian's  traffic  rangers 

Shall  throng  thine  ample  halls  ; 
And  far-off  sons  of  strangers 

Shall  build  thy  massive  walls. 

Zion,  the  loved,  has  waited 

In  sorrow  and  in  tears, 
Forsaken,  scorned  and  hated, 

Through  the  long  weary  years. 
Now  will  I  put  upon  her 

A  crown  of  matchless  worth, 
An  make  her  name  an  honor, 

A  praise  in  all  the  earth. 

Her  sun  no  more  declining, 

Shall  shed  perpetual  light ; 
Her  moon  in  splendor  shining, 

With  beauty  clothe  the  night ; 


126  OUR   LAND. 

Her  doors  wide  open  flinging, 
In  queenly  rest  she  waits, 

While  the  lost  race  with  singing 
Comes  thronging  to  her  gates. 


OUR  LAND. 

10s. 
THIS  land,  O  God,  which  Thy  right  hand  has  kept, 

A  large  dominion  stretching  wild  and  free, 
Which  through  the  lonely  ages  still  has  slept, 

With  all  its  treasured  stores  from  sea  to  sea, — 

Make  it  an  Empire  fit  to  be  thine  own, 

Crowned  with  the  glory  of  the  latter  days  ; 

Here  may  Immanuel  build  His  stately  throne, 
And  fill  the  sounding  forests  with  His  praise. 

Not  fields,  or  flocks,  or  thickly  crowded  marts, 
Or  white- winged  ships  sailing  o'er  every  sea, — 

Not  golden  ores,  or  gems,  or  polished  arts, 
Can  make  a  people  truly  strong  and  free. 

Thy  grace  alone  can  lift  to  high  estate 

The  lowliest  souls  which  thy  pure  truth  has  stirred ; 
'Tis  Thine  to  make  a  nation  strong  and  great, 

Reared  on  the  mighty  pillars  of  Thy  word. 

In  human  arm  we  dare  not  make  our  boast, 
And  not  in  fruitful  acres  fair  and  broad ; 

Not  in  the  refuge  of  an  armed  host, 
But  only  in  the  mighty  arm  of  God. 


BAPTISMAL    HYMN.  127 


BAPTISMAL  HYMN. 

7s  Double. 

FATHER,  to  thy  sheltering  wing, 
This  dear  child  in  faith  we  bring : 
Poor  and  blind  and  weak  are  we, 
All  our  help  must  come  from  Thee : 
At  thy  footstool  would  we  bow, 
While  we  breathe  our  humble  vow  : 
Hear,  O  hear  our  earnest  prayer, 
Take  this  child  beneath  thy  care. 

Blessed  Jesus,  Son  of  God, 
Who  these  earthly  paths  hast  trod ; 
Thou  did'st  call,  with  accent  sweet, 
Little  children  to  thy  feet : 
Let  this  little  child  be  thine, 
Sheltered  by  thy  love  divine : 
Hear,  O  hear  our  earnest  prayer, 
Take  this  child  beneath  thy  care. 

Holy  Spirit,  meek  and  mild, 
Shed  thy  graces  on  this  child ; 
Let  this  crystal  water  be 
Emblem  meet  of  purity ; 
Make  the  spirit  white  and  clean, 
Cleanse  the  soul  from  sense  and  sin  : 
Hear,  O  hear  our  earnest  prayer, 
Take  this  child  beneath  thy  care. 


128  THE    ANCIENT    SABBATH    SCHOOL. 


THE  ANCIENT  SABBATH   SCHOOL. 

H.  M. 

IN  memory's  golden  light, 

llow  pure  the  past  appears  ! 
How  calmly  on  the  sight 

Rise  the  long  vanished  years  ! 
With  joy  we  tell  the  story  o'er, 
Of  days  that  shall  return  no  more. 

Again  the  Sabbath  bell 

Rings  out  its  call  to  prayer, 
We  hear  the  music  swell 

On  the  still  morning  nir  ; 
And  scattered  dwellers  far  around 
Rise  and  obey  that  welcome  sound. 

We  see  the  happy  throngs, 
Walking  in  Zion's  ways, 
We  hear  the  child- like  songs, 

Upborne  on  wings  of  praise ; 
And  mingling  voices,  soft  and  sweet, 
The  Saviour's  blessed  word  repeat. 

We  gather  here  to-day, 

A  broken,  way-worn  band  ; 
Some  are  far,  far  away, 

Some  in  the  better  land ; 
But  still  our  fathers'  Gfod  we  bless, 
And  sing  His  love  and  faithfulness. 


DEDICATION    OF   HITCHCOCK   LIBRARY.       129 

Thy  word,  O  God,  shall  live, 

Though  men  and  nations  die.; 
Thy  word  its  light  shall  give, 

As  years  go  rolling  by ; 
Roll  on,  ye  years,  and  bring  the  hour 
When  all  the  earth  shall  feel  its  power. 


DEDICATION  OF  HITCHCOCK  LIBRARY. 

DEC.  21,  1874. 


GOD  of  our  Pilgrim  sires,  to  Thee 
All  might  and  majesty  belong; 

Before  Thy  face  we  bow  the  knee, 
And  lift  aloud  our  grateful  song. 

By  Thy  strong  arm,  the  Pilgrim  band 
Were  kept  in  all  their  stormy  way, 

Until  they  trod  this  goodly  land, 
And  gave  to  us  this  happy  day. 

We  bring  our  gift  before  Thy  throne, 

This  labor  which  our  hands  have  wrought, 

And  consecrate  to  Thee  alone 

This  treasure-  ho  use  of  sacred  thought. 

Choicer  than  gold,  though  thrice  refined, 
Or  all  the  gems  that  ocean  rolls, 

Are  these  fair  riches  of  the  mind, 

This  garnered  wealth  of  holy  souls. 
9 


130  DEDICATION   OF   PILGRIM    HALL. 

God  of  our  sirea,  still  let  that  grace, 

That  strength,  which  made  the  fathers  bold, 

Descend  upon  the  Pilgrim  race, 
As  coming  years  shall  be  unrolled. 

II.  C.  M. 

WE  sing  our  gladsome  hymn  of  praise, 

And  bless  our  Fathers'  God, 
While  we  recount  the  former  days, 

And  trace  the  pathway  trod. 

How  many  hearts  this  hope  has  filled, 

The  living  and  the  dead  I 
How  many  hands  have  wrought  to  build 

This  temple  where  we  tread  1 

But  one,  our  warmest  praise  demands, 

His  gift  we  here  recall, 
By  whom  this  finished  structure  stands, 

Whose  name  adorns  our  Hall. 

He  gave,  and  passed  from  earth  away, 

To  his  unseen  employ, 
Ere  he  could  see  this  crowning  day, 

Or  share  our  festive  joy. 

But  here,  embalmed,  his  gift  shall  last, 

His  substance  shall  endure ; 
And  as  the  rolling  years  go  past, 

His  heritage  is  sure. 


HOME   MISSIONS.  131 


HOME  MISSIONS. 

7s  &  6s, 

'The  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness." 


A  SOUND  of  glad  thanksgiving 

In  border  lands  is  heard ; 
The  lonely  vales  are  ringing, 

The  forest  depths  are  stirred ; 
In  many  a  humble  dwelling 

By  wood  and  mountain  glen, 
The  messengers  are  telling 

Of  God's  great  love  to  men. 

O  ye  who  walk  in  gladness, 

Where  God's  fair  temples  rise, 
Think  of  the  gloom  and  sadness 

Beneath  those  forest  skies  ; 
Where  sinful  souls  are  turning, 

Bewildered  and  unblest ; 
And  Christian  hearts  are  yearning 

For  the  old  Sabbath  rest. 

Ye  know  the  consolation 

Of  the  sweet  word  of  God, 
In  days  of  tribulation, 

When  falls  the  chastening  rod ; 
Go  help  the  sad  and  weary 

To  find  this  cheering  ray, 
When  clouds  hang  dark  and  dreary 

Around  their  earthly  way. 


132  SONG   FOR    FREEDOM. 


SONG  FOR  FREEDOM.— NOV.  3,  1868. 

Crambambuli. 
ALL  hail  to  the  land 
In  majesty  arising, 
From  sea  to  sea,  to  make  men  free, 

All  hail  to  the  land ! 
Above  the  scattering  clouds  of  war 
She  shines  like  some  bright  morning  star 
O'er  nations  near  and  far, 
Hail,  hail  to  the  land ! 

Oh,  long  was  the  night 

And  fearful  was  the  conflict, 
When  myriad  hosts  along  our  coasts 

Pressed  on  to  the  fight. 
They  trod  their  grim  and  bloody  way 
To  give  our  freedom  mightier  sway 
And  bring  in  a  golden  day 

For  God  and  the  right ! 

Our  brave  leader,  hail, 

Who  bore  our  armies  onward ; 
Whose  gallant  form  rode  out  the  storm, 

Our  brave  leader,  hail ! 
To-day  the  happy  millions  wait 
To  bear  him  on  to  halls  of  State, 
High  amid  the  good  and  great, 

Our  brave  leader,  hail ! 


OUR   FATHERS.  133 

Then  joy  to  the  land 

In  majesty  arising, 
From  sea  to  sea,  to  make  men  free, 

Joy,  joy  to  the  land ! 
She  shines  as  shines  the  morning  star 
Above  the  vanished  clouds  of  war, 
O'er  seas  and  tribes  afar, 

Joy,  joy  to  the  land ! 


OUR  FATHERS. 

H.M. 

WE  own  that  guiding  Hand, 
Which,  in  the  years  of  old, 
Led  to  this  chosen  land 

Our  fathers,  firm  and  bold ; 
Brought  them  across  the  stormy  sea, 
To  build  this  empire  of  the  free. 

They  came  with  faith  in  God ; 

They  came  with  faith  in  man ; 
On  this  fresh  virgin  sod 

To  try  their  untried  plan  ; 
To  give  this  realm  of  freedom  birth, 
And  shed  new  light  around  the  earth. 

Soon  as  our  godly  sires 

These  new-found  shores  had  trod, 
They  lit  their  altar- fires 

And  claimed  the  land  for  God ; 
They  filled  the  forest  shades  with  light, 
And  turned  to  day  the  savage  night. 


134  PSALM    VIII, 


PSALM  viii. 

108. 

O  LORD,  our  Lord,  how  excellent  Thy  name, 
Through  the  wide  circuit  of  this  earthly  frame ! 
Above  the  heavens  Thy  glorious  acts  are  known, 
Far  as  the  habitation  of  Thy  throne. 

When  I  survey  the  wonders  of  Thine  hand, 
The  moon  and  stars  that  shine  at  Thy  command, 
Lord,  what  is  man,  Thy  creature  here  below, 
The  son  of  man,  that  Thou  should'st  love  him  so? 

A  little  lower  than  the  angels  made, 
Glory  and  honor  on  his  head  are  laid ; 
For  Thou  hast  given  him  a  kingly  seat, 
And  put  all  earthly  things  beneath  his  feet. 

The  roving  beasts,  the  cattle  of  the  stall, 
The  bleating  flocks,  come  trooping  at  his  call ; 
The  birds  that  fly,  the  fish  that  range  the  sea, 
Are  made  submissive  to  his  high  decree. 

O  Lord,  our  Lord,  how  excellent  Thy  name ! 
In  heaven  and  earth  Thy  glory  is  the  same : 
Through  the  far  skies  Thy  mighty  acts  are  known, 
Far  as  the  habitation  of  Thy  throne. 


INSTALLATION  AT  OLD   SOUTH   CHURCH.     135 


INSTALLATION  AT  OLD  SOUTH  CHURCH, 
BOSTON. 

Portuguese  Hymn. 

O  GOD,  unto  Thee  would  we  gratefully  raise 
Our  songs  of  remembrance,  our  anthems  of  praise ; 
Enthroned  in  the  heavens,  Thou  dost  stoop  to  bestow 
Thy  kindness  and  care  on  Thy  children  below. 

Our  fathers  of  old,  with  a  joyful  accord, 
Inspired  by  Thy  word  built  an  house  for  the  Lord ; 
They  wrought  in  their  weakness,  but  Thou  in  Thy  might 
Hast  brought  forth  their  work  into  fullness  of  light. 

To-day,  the  far  years  rise  again  to  our  view; 
We  see  the  long  lines  of  the  faithful  and  true; 
With  songs  of  rejoicing  they  gladden  their  way, 
Though  bearing  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day. 

As  wave  follows  wave  on  the  sea- beaten  shore, 
The  pilgrims  pass  on  and  earth  sees  them  no  more; 
Thy  years  never  fail,  and  the  Church  of  Thy  care 
From  age  unto  age  shall  Thy  glory  declare. 

To-day,  a  new  scene  opens  out  on  our  sight ; 
Shed  round  it,  O  God,  the  soft  beams  of  Thy  light ; 
While  here  in  Thy  courts  as  Thy  people  shall  bend, 
Let  power  from  on  high  in  its  fullness  descend. 


136 


JOB   IV. 


JOB  iv.  12-17. 

S.M. 

A  WONDROUS  thing  was  brought, 
In  secret,  to  mine  ear  ; 
It  stirred  to  life  my  slumbering  thought, 
And  filled  my  soul  with  fear. 

In  visions  of  the  night, 
When  deep  sleep  falls  on  men, 
A  spirit  passed  before  my  sight, 
And  made  my  boasting  vain. 

It  stood  before  my  face, 
The  form  I  could  not  see, 
But  from  some  shadowy  hiding-place, 
A  voice  spake  unto  me : 

Shall  mortal  man  aspire 
To  be  more  just  than  God? 
Or  shall  he  dream  in  wild  desire 
To  fly  the  chastening  rod  ? 

If  angels  great  in  might, 
Who  circle  round  the  throne, 
Are  counted  simple  in  his  sight, 
And  all  their  folly  own  ; 

How  shall  frail  dying  man, 
Wrhose  house  is  in  the  dust, 
Dare  to  rebuke  his  Maker's  plan, 
Or  count  His  ways  unjust ! 


SONG   OF    THE   REDEEMED.  137 


SONG  OF  THE  REDEEMED. 

Revelation  xv.  7s  &  6s. 

THEY  sang  the  song  of  Moses, 

The  servant  of  the  Lord, 
And  of  the  Lamb,  once  dying, 

But  now  in  heaven  adored ; 
Thus  ran  the  mighty  anthem, 

Which  angels  joined  to  sing, 
Bearing  immortal  honors 

To  Christ  their  glorious  King. 

How  marvellous  Thy  workings, 

O  Thou  Almighty  One ! 
How  true  and  just  and  righteous, 

The  wonders  Thou  hast  done ! 
Thou  King  of  saints  in  glory, 

Who  shall  not  fear  Thy  name? 
For  Thou  most  high  and  holy 

Hast  borne  the  sinner's  shame. 

Earth's  gathering  tribes  and  nations 

Shall  round  Thy  banners  come, 
Shall  flock  to  pay  their  worship, 

As  exiles  hastening  home : 
For  now  Thy  works  of  judgment, 

Thy  ways  of  truth  and  grace, 
Are  manifest  and  open 

To  Adam's  wandering  race. 


138  EASTEK   HYMNS, 


EASTER  HYMNS. 
I. 

BREAK  o'er  the  earth,  thou  glad  prophetic  morning, 

For  life  immortal  dawns  beneath  thy  light ; 
Strong  was  the  grave,  and  death  was  full  of  terror, 

But  death  lies  vanquished  by  His  kingly  might. 
His  tomb  is  open — see  the  grave-clothes  lying, 

Come  see  the  napkin  that  was  round  His  head ; 
Stoop  down  and  wonder,  for  the  dead  has  vanished — 

At  early  dawn  He  left  His  gloomy  bed. 

And  ye  poor  mourners  who  have  laid  your  loved  ones, 

With  bleeding  hearts,  in  their  cold  graves  to  sleep, 
And  while  the  storms  of  earth  are  sighing  round  them, 

To  your  lone  chambers  have  returned  to  weep — 
Our  Lord  has  risen ;  calm  away  your  sorrow, 

And  take  the  blessed  peace  that  word  imparts  ; 
With  this  sweet  comfort,  comfort  one  another, 

And  roll  the  burden  from  your  weary  hearts. 

Our  Lord  has  risen, — and  the  word  goes  sounding, 

In  broader  circles,  o'er  the  troubled  race ; 
It  lifts  the  lowly,  sets  the  poor  and  humble, 

The  meek  and  gentle,  in  a  lordly  place : 
It  throws  o'er  man  a  calm  and  heavenly  glory, 

And  makes  the  earth  companion  of  the  skies  ; 
The  dead  are  waiting  for  his  reappearing, 

And  they  that  sleep  in  Him,  with  Him  shall  rise. 


EASTER   HYMNS.  139 


II. 

DA.RK.  is  the  grave  in  which  Jesus  lies  sleeping, 
Heavy  the  night  that  encircles  His  tomb  : 

They  who  have  loved  Him  in  anguish  are  weeping, 
All  their  fair  visions  are  shrouded  in  gloom. 

Out  from  these  shadows,  in  glory  uprising, 
Breaks,  in  its  brightness,  the  glad  Easter  morn, 

Mountain  and  valley  with  splendor  baptizing : 
Lo,  a  ne\y  hope  for  the  race  has  been  born. 

Christ  has  arisen, — the  seals  have  been  broken, 
Watchmen  have  kept  their  night- vigils  in  vain : 

So  is  fulfilled  what  the  prophets  have  spoken, 
He  who  was  dead  is  now  living  again. 

Christ  has  arisen, — the  grave  could  not  hold  Him, 
Messengers  hasten  to  tell  the  surprise ; 

Angels  shall  come  in  their  arms  to  enfold  Him, 
Bearing  Him  up  to  His  throne  in  the  skies. 

III. 

7s  Double. 

HAIL  the  bright  and  radiant  morn, 
Out  of  gloom  and  darkness  born ! 
See,  the  stone  is  rolled  away 
Where  the  buried  Saviour  lay ! 
Let  your  songs  of  gladness  rise 
In  full  chorus  to  the  skies, 
For  the  long  dark  night  is  past, 
Life  immortal  breaks  at  last. 


140  EASTER    HYMNS. 

Now  while  morning  shadows  fall, 
And  earth's  happy  voices  call, 
Hasten  at  the  break  of  day, 
Come  and  see  where  Jesus  lay ; 
Stoop  thee  down  with  wondering  eyes, 
Fill  thy  soul  with  sweet  surprise ; 
Then  in  joy  lift  up  thy  head, 
For  He  liveth  who  was  dead. 

Yea,  He  lives  for  evermore 
On  the  fair  eternal  shore, 
And  His  faithful  ones  who  sleep, 
He  with  tenderest  care  will  keep 
Till  the  last  great  morn  shall  break, 
And  His  loved  ones  shall  awake : 
With  the  hope  this  word  imparts, 
Comfort  one- another's  hearts. 


IV. 

LORD,  I  believe;  help  thou  mine  unbelief; 

Teach  my  dull  soul,  from  earthly  thoughts  awaking, 
To  rise  o'er  doubt,  and  fear,  and  present  grief, 

For,  lo  !  again  the  Easter  morn  is  breaking. 
From  land  to  land  the  gladsome  tidings  run, 

And  Easter  bells,  afar  and  near,  are  ringing ; 
From  dawn  of  morn  to  set  of  evening  sun, 

The  air  shall  thrill  with  notes  of  joy  and  singing, 

There  is  for  man  no  glory  on  the  earth, 

If  the  strong  gates  of  death  have  not  been  broken : 

If  we  awake  not  to  immortal  birth 

By  that  great  word  which  Christ  the  Lord  has  spoken, 


EASTER    HYMNS.  l4l 

Vain  are  all  pomps  and  shows  of  earthly  life, 
Yain  this  long  round  of  sorrow  and  of  sinning  : 

In  all  the  prizes  of  this  selfish  strife, 

There  is  no  prize  worthy  the  cost  of  winning. 

Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled ;  I  am  He 

Who  once  was  dead,  but  IIOAV  alive  forever ; 
And  those  who  in  the  dust  shall  sleep  with  me 

No  art  or  power  from  my  embrace  can  sever. 
Many  the  mansions  in  my  Father's  home, 

Many  the-happy  dwellers  there  abiding ; 
I  will  prepare  a  place  for  you,  and  come 

To  this  eternal  home  your  footsteps  guiding. 

O  words  of  greatness  and  triumphant  power, 

From  age  to  age  and  land  to  land  resounding ! 
No  words  like  these  in  nature's  dying  hour, 

With  strength  and  lofty  hope  for  man  abounding : 
When  earthly  sights  and  sounds  can  please  no  more, 

And  in  the  sleep  of  death  my  eyes  are  closing, 
Let  me,  by  faith,  behold  th'  eternal  shore, 

On  these  strong  words  of  Christ,  my  Lord,  reposing. 


V. 


THE    JOURNEY    TO    EMMAUS. 

THE  tumult  and  noise  of  the  city 
No  longer  could  trouble  their  ear, 

Yet  they  toiled  o'er  the  hills  on  their  journey, 
In  silence  and  sadness  and  fear : 


142  EASTER   HYMNS. 

For  the  thoughts  of  their  hearts  were  kept  busy 
Over  one  they  had  loved,  who  was  dead  ; 

The  dreams  they  had  dreamed  had  all  vanished, 
And  the  hopes  they  had  cherished  were  fled. 

The  fields  far  around  them  were  lonely, 

Yet  they  saw  a  kind  stranger  draw  near, 
Who  was  touched  with  the  look  of  their  sadness, 

And  asked  of  their  trouble  and  fear ; 
And  they  told  him  of  one  they  had  trusted 

As  Prince,  and  Redeemer,  and  Friend, 
But  the  grave  had  now  claimed  him  as  victim, 

And  brought  their  glad  hopes  to  an  end. 

Then  he  opened  unto  them  the  Scriptures, 

And  made  it  all  plain  to  their  sight, 
That  the  cross  and  the  grave  were  the  pathways 

That  led  to  His  kingdom  of  light ; 
At  the  evening  repast  in  their  dwelling, 

He  was  known  in  the  breaking  of  bread ; 
And  he  vanished, — but  ere  He  departed 

They  had  seen  the  dear  Friend  that  was  dead. 

And  with  joy  they  said  one  to  the  other, 

Were  not  our  hearts  burning  within, 
At  his  accents  so  gentle  and  loving, 

O'erlooking  our  blindness  and  sin  ? 
The  tomb  where  he  lay  could  not  hold  him, 

So  he  conquered  the  last  of  his  foes 
When  the  sepulchre  bars  had  been  broken, 

And  from  its  cold  grave  he  arose. 


CHRISTMAS    CAROLS.  143 


CHRISTMAS  CAROLS. 

7s  Double. 
I. 

NIGHT,  with  holy  silence,  fills 
Judah's  ancient  vales  and  hills, 
And  the  moonlight  beauty  sleeps 
Round  her  rough  and  rocky  steeps  ; 
While  aloft,  in  heavenly  space, 
Lo  that  wondrous  star  of  grace, 
Shining  down  with  tranquil  ray, 
Over  where  the  young  child  lay. 

Wise  men,  from  the  lands  afar, 
Long  have  watched  that  moving  star ; 
Night  by  night,  with  eager  eyes 
Tracked  its  course  along  the  skies, 
Till  their  way-worn  feet  were  led 
Safely  to  the  cradle- bed; 
Glad  to  pour  the  gifts  they  bring 
Down  before  the  new-born  king. 

It  is  meet  to  bring  your  gold, 
And  your  wealth  of  myrrh  unfold  ; 
He,  whom  kings  and  prophets  saw, 
Comes  to  magnify  the  law ; 
He,  the  meek  and  kingly  child, 
Holy,  harmless,  undefiled, 
Rises  from  this  lowly  birth, 
Prince  of  Peace — to  rule  the  earth. 


144  CHRISTMAS    CAROLS. 

Open  thou,  O  God,  mine  eyes, 
M  ake  them  quick  to  read  the  skies  ; 
Let  no  cloud  my  vision  mar, 
While  I  follow  Bethlehem's  Star; 
Lead  me  like  those  men  of  old, 
Through  the  night  paths,  lone  and  cold, 
Till  the  star  the  secret  tells 
Where  my  king  Immanuel  dwells. 

II. 

O  NIGHT  of  nights !  crown  of  the  gathered  ages, 
The  mighty  dream  of  long  prophetic  years  ! 

The  hoary  seers,  the  ancient  saints  and  sages, 

Watched  for  thy  coming  through  their  patient  tears. 

O  holy  night !  celestial  bells  are  ringing, 

And  heaven  bends  down  the  waiting  earth  to  greet : 
From  airy  heights  the  angel  bands  are  singing, 

And  Bethlehem's  hills  the  echoing  strains  repeat. 

O  silent  night !  the  quiet  dews  are  falling, 

And  moonlight  broods  o'er  vale  and  mountain  steep, 

The  wakeful  shepherds,  each  to  other  calling, 

Guard  through  the  midnight  hours  the  gentle  sheep. 

O  wondrous  night !  yon  moving  star  is  tracing 
Its  lordly  pathway  through  the  Eastern  skies  : 

And  now  it  stands,  with  heavenly  splendor,  gracing 
The  humble  dwelling  where  the  young  child  lies. 

O  night  of  joy !  the  years  to  come  shall  brighten 
Beneath  the  hallowed  light  of  Bethlehem's  star: 

A  Prince  is  born,  whose  gentle  sway  shall  lighten 
The  burdened  race,  and  still  the  noise  of  war. 


10 


THE    NEW   SETTLEMENTS.  145 

THE  NEW  SETTLEMENTS. 

"  The  desert  shall  rejoice."  7s  Double. 

WESTWARD  still  the  pilgrims  go, 

Nearer  to  the  setting  sun, 
On  through  storm,  and  heat,  and  snow, 

Til}  their  mighty  task  be  done ; 
Bold  heroic  sons  of  toil, 

Still  they  leave  the  ancient  nest, 
To  subdue  the  forest  soil, 

And  to  give  their  children  rest. 

Let  the  sower  follow  fast, 

Laden  with  the  precious  grain ; 
Let  the  heavenly  stores  be  cast 

Wide  o'er  hill,  and  vale,  and  plain.: 
God  will  guard  the  fruitful  seed, 

Will  not  let  this  labor  die  ; 
For  immortal  souls  must  feed 

On  the  bread  of  His  supply. 

In  the  morning  sow  thy  seed, 

Nor  at  evening  stay  thy  toil ; 
Hear  how  kindred  voices  plead, 

From  that  for- off  forest  soil : 
So  the  wilderness  shall  bloom, 

In  its  heavenly  beauty  clad ; 
So  the  deserts  lose  their  gloom, 

And  the  lonely  place  be  glad. 


146  GOD    IN    THE   GARDEN. 


GOD  IN  THE  GARDEN. 

;  And  they  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lord  God  walking  in 
the  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  day." 

AND  still  God  walks  upon  the  earth, 

And  talks  with  men  below, 
Along  the  leafy  garden  paths 

His  footsteps  come  and  go ; 
And  when  the  soul  is  calm  and  pure, 

And  passion's  waves  are  still, 
How  sweetly  comes  that  winning  voice, 

The  listening  ear  to  fill ! 

O  happy  is  that  trustful  child> 

"Who  runs  with  ready  feet, 
Along  the  pleasant  garden  ways, 

His  Father's  voice  to  greet ; 
But  when  the  soul  is  full  of  shame, 

And  full  of  sin  and  pride, 
He  runs,  as  Adam  did  before, 

Among  the  trees  to  hide. 

For  heaven  lies  very  near  to  earth, 

And  God  dwells  not  apart, 
And  we  shall  find  Him,  when  we  seek 

With  purity  of  heart ; 
"We  hear  Him  walking  mid  the  trees,. 

Wherever  we  may  stray, 
He  meets  us  in  the  garden  paths, 

At  the  cool  close  of  day. 


YALE    SONGS.  147 


YALE  SONGS. 

Sung  at  different  Yale  Alumni  meetings  in  Boston. 

Crambambuli. 
I. 

i  OH,  gladly  to-night, 
As  children  of  one  household, 
We  grasp  the  hand,  a  joyous  band, 

In  gladness  to-night; 
We  drive  our  carking  cares  away, 
And  give  our  memories  leave  to  play 
Around  youth's  golden  day, 
That  day  ever  bright. 

Oh,  sweet  day  of  youth ! 
When  every  pulse  was  bounding, 
When  joys  were  long,  and  hopes  were  strong, 

Oh,  sweet  day  of  youth ! 
We  catch  thy  music  from  afar, 
Thy  light  is  like  some  radiant  star, 
No  mists  and  clouds  to  mar, 

Serene,  pure  as  truth. 

But  tears  for  the  dead ! 
Cut  off  in  life's  bright  morning, 
Companions  dear,  no  longer  here, 

Tears,  tears  for  the  dead ! 


H8  YALE   SONGS. 

With  them  we  walked  in  sweet  delight, 
With  them  we  climbed  the  mountain  height, 
Oh,  were  they  here  to-night 
With  light  on  their  head ! 

Our  good  Mother  dear, 
When  she  counts  up  her  offspring, 
May  proudly  boast  a  mighty  host 

Of  sons  far  and  near ; 

And  in  whatever  climes  they  dwell, 

They  treasure  up  her  counsels  well, 

All  her  kind  ways  they  tell — 

Yea  kind,  when  severe. 

Far,  far  o'er  the  earth, 
Her  sons  to-night  are  scattered; 
In  western  lands,  on  Afric  sands, 

Far,  far  o'er  the  earth. 
They  teach  the  truths  their  mother  taught, 
They  work  the  work  at  which  she  wrought, 
Their  toil  with  pleasure  fraught, 

To  show  forth  her  worth. 

Then  gladly  to-night, 
As  children  of  one  household, 
We  grasp  the  hand,  a  joyous  band, 

In  gladness  to-night ; 
We  drive  our  carking  cares  away, 
And  give  our  memories  leave  to  play 
Around  youth's  golden  day, 

That  day  ever  bright. 


YALE    SONGS.  149 

II. 

The  Old  Mountain  Tree. 
WE  are  children  all  of  a  common  home, 

Of  a  common  mother  dear, 
From  the  east  and  west  to-night  we  have  come, 

And  we  gather  in  gladness  here ; 
We  remember  yet  and  can  never  forget, 

When  we  sat  by  our  good  mother's  knee, 
When  she  taught  us  to  walk  and  taught  us  to  talk, 

And  toMiry  how  good  we  could  be, 

And  to  try  how  good  we  could  be. 

We  are  older  grown  and  are  scattered  wide, 

But  gladly  we  come  once  more, 
And  in  thought  go  back  to  our  mother's  side, 

To  our  home  by  the  sunny  shore  ; 
To  the  pleasant  shade  where  oft  we  strayed, 

In  our  converse  glad  and  free, 
To  the  rocky  height  which  day  and  night 

Stands  sentinel  guard  by  the  sea, 

Stands  sentinel  guard  by  the  sea. 

Those  days  of  our  youth  can  never  come  back, 

They  have  gone  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 
But  memory  wanders  along  their  track, 

With  ever- increasing  delight; 
We  tell  them  o'er,  those  pleasures  of  yore, 

And  they  never  can  wearisome  be, 
And  we  drop  a  tear  for  the  friends  so  dear, 

Whose  faces  no  longer  we  see, 

Whose  faces  no  longer  we  see. 


150  YALE    SONGS. 


m. 

Evening  Bells. 

THOSE  days  of  old,  those  days  of  old, 
Gone  fleeting  like  a  tale  long  told : 
A  dimness  gathers  o'er  the  eye, 
And  thoughts  go  trooping  swiftly  by, 
As  backward  come  to  us  once  more 
The  memories  of  those  days  of  yore. 

Oh  days  of  youth,  when  hope  was  strong 
And  life  was  like  a  pleasant  song, 
When  hand  in  hand  we  wandered  free, 
And  talked  of  all  we  hoped  to  be, 
With  skies  above  us  shining  bright, 
And  earth  bedecked  with  golden  light ! 

How  fair  before  our  eager  eyes, 

Did  all  the  unknown  future  rise ! 

But  many  a  heart,  then  young  and  brave, 

Now  slumbers  in  the  silent  grave, 

And  hears  no  more  the  story  told, 

The  memory  of  those  days  of  old. 

Those  days  of  old,  those  days  of  old, 

No  more  for  us  can  be  unrolled ; 

But  as  we  run  our  earthly  race, 

And  age  comes  on  with  creeping  pace, 

Our  faith  would  grasp  the  things  before, 

And  calmly  view  th'  eternal  shore. 


YALE   SONGS.  151 


IV. 

Sparkling  and  Bright. 
SING  we  in  praise  of  the  olden  days, 

When  the  pulse  of  youth  was  bounding, 
When  the  earth  was  bright  with  a  charmed  light, 

And  the  songs  of  joy  were  sounding ; 

Then  let  us  sing,  till  the  arches  ring, 
Of  the  happy  years  gone  o'er  us, 
^   And  tell  the  tale  of  our  life  at  YALE, 
Till  the  visions  rise  before  us. 

O  the  years  of  life,  they  are  vexed  with  strife, 

And  full  of  pain  and  sorrow, 
And  the  loads  we  bear,  of  toil  and  care, 

Will  press  again  to-morrow ; 

Then  let  us  sing,  &e. 

We  will  walk  once  more  on  the  moonlit  shore, 
With  the  starry  heavens  above  us, 

Or  sit  and  dream  by  the  rippling  stream 
Of  the  bright -eyed  girls  that  love  us. 

Then  rise  and  sing,  &c. 

Now  here  we  stand,  and  give  our  hand, 

As  brother  pledges  brother  ; 
That  come  what  may,  we  must  still  obey 

Our  good  old  Christian  Mother. 

Then  rise  and  sing,  &c. 


152  THE    STILL    SMALL    VOICE. 


THE  STILL  SMALL  VOICE. 

C.  M.  Double. 

AMID  the  noisy  whirl  of  life, 

Its  tumult  and  its  fear, 
There  is  a  soft  and  winning  voice, 

Comes  whispering  in  my  ear  ; 
I  hear  it  in  the  busy  day, 

In  stillness  of  the  night, 
And  though  I  flee,  it  follows  me, 

In  darkness  and  in  light. 

The  thunder  hath  a  mighty  tongue, 

The  earthquake  speaks  in  wrath, 
And  howling  winds  declare  God's  will, 

Along  their  stormy  path ; 
But  mightier  than  the  tempest's  breath, 

Or  thunder  rolling  loud, 
Is  that  soft  wrord,  in  stillness  heard, 

Where  stoutest  hearts  are  bowed. 

On  land  or  sea,  in  storm  or  calm, 

This  still  small  voice  is  nigh ; 
But  when  I  hear  God's  holy  word, 

It  speaks  most  tenderly  ; 
It  tells  me  of  my  sin  and  guilt, 

It  tells  of  God's  great  love ; 
To  hide  my  shame,  it  names  that  Name, 

All  other  names  above. 


THE    TORN    BATTLE-FLAGS.  153 


THE  TORN  BATTLE-FLAGS. 

7s  &  6s. 


On  Forefathers'  Day,  1805,  the  battle  flags  which  had  been 
carried  through  the  war  of  the  Rebellion  by  the  Massachusetts 
Regiments,  were  taken  from  the  State  House,  where  they  were 
deposited,  and  once  more  carried  by  the  remnants  of  those 
regiments  through  the  streets  of  Boston,  in  a  long  and  impres 
sive  procession. 


HAIL  to  the  proud  old  banner ! 

Through  storm  and  tempest  borne, 
Stript  of  its  early  splendors, 

In  conflict  scarred  and  torn  : 
Its  wavy  folds  have  fluttered 

In  the  hot  battle's  breath, 
Its  stars  have  shone  triumphant, 

On  the  red  field  of  death. 

Hail  to  its  brave  defenders ! 

The  glorious  boys  in  blue, 
Who,  for  their  God  and  country, 

Have  fought  the  battle  through : 
Let  men  and  maidens  gather 

Their  glad  return  to  meet, 
And  let  the  loud  huzzas  ring  out, 

Along  the  crowded  street. 


This  day  is  for  the  Fathers, 
Those  brave  old  Pilgrim  Sires, 


154  HYMNS    FOR    FREEDOM. 

Who  kindled  in  these  forests 
The  light  of  Freedom's  fires  : 

These  fires  are  watched  and  tended, 
By  those  who  bear  their  name, 

And  many  a  son  has  fallen 
To  guard  the  sacred  flame. 

Then  hail  to  the  proud  old  banner ! 

Through  storm  and  tempest  borne, 
Stript  of  its  early  splendors, 

In  conflict  scarred  and  torn : 
Its  wavy  folds  have  fluttered 

In  the  hot  battle's  breath, 
Its  stars  have  shone  triumphant, 

On  the  red  field  of  death. 


HYMNS  FOR  FREEDOM. 
I. 

THE  place  we  tread  is  holy  ground, 
Since  that  far  April  morn, 

When  out  of  storm  and  battle  sound, 
A  mighty  hope  was  born. 

We  wander  o'er  these  ancient  ways, 
And  trace  the  bloody  track  ; 

Once  more  the  old  heroic  days 
In  happy  thoughts  come  back. 


HYMNS    FOR   FREEDOM.  155 

And  unto  God  we  lift  our  song, 

Who  made  our  fathers  bold, 
Bore  up  their  hearts  with  courage  strong 

Through  those  dark  days  of  old. 

And  by  His  work  in  them  inwrought, 

He  gave  fair  freedom  sway, 
Till  a  great  people  now  is  brought 

To  keep  its  festal  day. 


H. 

WE  lift  our  glad  adoring  songs, 

Almighty  God,  to  Thee : 
For  to  Thyself  the  power  belongs 

To  make  a  nation  free. 

O'er  all  the  earth,  from  age  to  age, 
The  tribes,  that  knew  not  God, 

Have  bowed  beneath  the  tyrant's  rage, 
And  felt  his  scourging  rod. 

But  where  Thy  Holy  Word  has  shed 

O'er  human  souls  its  light, 
There  nations  rise  as  from  the  dead, 

And  stand  in  freedom's  might. 

So  would  we  come,  on  bended  knee, 
Thy  mind  and  will  to  read, 

For  when  Thy  Word  has  made  us  free, 
We  shall  be  free  indeed. 


156  NOCTUKN. 


NOOTURN. 

L.  M. 

COME,  with  thy  shadows,  gentle  night, 

And  fold  us  in  thy  blissful  calm ; 
Our  eyes  grow  weary  with  the  light, 

Shed  o'er  them  thy  refreshing  balm. 

From  hill  and  dale,  from  wood  and  plain, 

Thy  pensive  music,  soft  and  low, 
Steals  on  the  ear,  a  sweet  refrain, 

How  soothing  in  its  murmurous  flow ! 

Come  cloudless  night ! — unbar  the  gates 
That  hide  the  wonders  of  the  skies ; 

Unlock  the  starry  realm,  that  waits 
To  gleam  on  our  uplifted  eyes. 

For  noise  and  tumult  fill  the  day 

In  all  our  busy  rounds  of  care ; 
Now  let  the  spirit  soar  away, 

And  wander  in  these  fields  of  air. 

Come  holy  night !— we  walk  alone, 
And  wisdom  whispers  in  our  ear ; 

How  winning  in  her  heavenly  tone, 
How  blest  the  soul  that  bends  to  hear ! 


JUBILATE    DEO.  157 


JUBILATE  DEO. 

Ts.  95.  «,. 

0  COME  let  us  sing  to  the  Lord, 
And  lift  up  our  voice  in  His  praise, 

Come  join  with  a  gladsome  accord, 
To  worship  the  Ancient  of  Days. 

With  anthems  encircle  His  throne, 

With  lofty  and  jubilant  songs, 
For  He  is  Jehovah  alone, 

To  Him  the  dominion  belongs. 

He  fashioned  the  depths  of  the  earth, 
The  hills  are  the  work  of  His  hand, 

He  gave  to  the  ocean  its  birth, 

He  measured  and  moulded  the  land. 

O  come  to  our  Maker  and  Head, 
And  bow  at  His  altars  in  prayer, 

For  us  His  fair  pastures  are  spread, 
And  we  are  the  sheep  of  His  care. 


158        CELEBRATION  AT  TOLLAND. 


CENTENNIAL    CELEBRATION     OF    TOL 
LAND  COUNTY.  AT  TOLLAND, 
CONNECTICUT. 

JULY  4,  1876. 

ON  these  ancient  hills  we  gather, 

Now  in  summer  glory  dressed ; 
We  have  come  to  tread  the  pathways 

Which  our  fathers'  feet  have  pressed : 
Lo,  the  century  fills  its  cycle 

Since  our  nation's  wondrous  birth, 
And  the  broad  land  stirs  with  gladness, 

Wakes  with  song  and  festal  mirth. 

God's  great  works  are  still  abiding; 

Changing  seasons  come  and  go  ; 
Summer  brings  her  tropic  splendors  ; 

Winter  wraps  the  earth  in  snow ; 
On  these  green,  and  rocky  pastures 

Softly  yet  the  dew  distils  ; 
Brooks,  along  their  winding  channels, 

Still  go  singing  down  the  hills. 

Night  lights  up  the  heavenly  archway 

With  the  naming  lamps  of  old ; 
Bold  Orion  treads  his  circuit, 

In  his  belt  of  shining  gold ; 


CELEBRATION    AT    TOLLAND.  159 

Still  Arcturus  keeps  his  night-watch, 

Round  about  the  icy  north, 
And  the  star  of  love,  at  evening, 

With  the  twilight  shade  peeps  forth. 

But  frail  man,  though  high  and  godlike, 

Bears  the  stamp  of  mortal  birth ; 
Full  of  thoughts  and  glorious  visions, 

For  a  while  he  treads  the  earth ; 
Then  to  God,  who  gave  him  being, 

Heorestores  th'  immortal  trust, 
And  is  gathered  to  his  fathers, 

Sleeping  with  his  kindred  dust. 

Round  us  now  the  dead  are  thronging, 

Those  heroic  men  of  toil, 
Who  subdued  these  rocky  hillsides, 

Broke  this  hard  and  stubborn  soil ; 
Men  who  dared  defy  a  tyrant, 

Dared  to  face  a  monarch's  frown, 
Spurned  the  pride  and  pomp  of  kingcraft, 

Spurned  the  bauble  of  a  crown. 

Let  us  catch  some  open  vision 

Of  that  world  wherein  they  dwelt ; 
Of  their  lonely  scattered  dwellings, 

Of  the  altars  where  they  knelt : 
Winter  firesides  large  and  ample, 

Chimney  corners  snug  and  warm, 
Coverts  from  the  windy  tempest, 

Shelters  from  the  angry  storm. 


160        CELEBRATION  AT  TOLLAXD. 

Meeting-houses,  square  and  sturdy, 

Ancient  temples  of  renown, 
Built  near  heaven,  and  glorifying 

Highest  points  in  all  the  town ; 
Like  the  tribes  that  climbed  Mount  Zion, 

So  our  fathers  had  a  way, 
Going  up  to  reach  their  temples, 

Up  to  keep  their  festal  day. 

And  the  ancient  towns  were  planted 

Up  where  God's  free  breezes  blow ; 
"While  deep  solitude  and  silence 

Reigned  in  woody  vales  below ; 
Then  the  gods  that  rule  the  valleys 

Had  not  waked  the  clattering  mills  : 
Then  New  England's  pride  and  glory 

Were  the  farms  among  the  hills. 

Let  us  walk  these  ancient  ranges, 

Look  about  with  reverent  eyes, 
Count  the  goodly  towers  and  bulwarks 

In  their  order  as  they  rise ; 
Let  us  trace  the  olden  townships, 

Buildedin  a  stately  row, 
See  the  world  our  fathers  lived  in 

Back  one  hundred  years  ago. 


"We  start  upon  the  upward  line, 

And  slowly  travel  down: 
There's  little  Union,  tough  and  brave, 

The  northeast  corner  town ; 


CELKBEATION    AT    TOLLAND. 

No  town  more  freely  sent  her  sons 

To  that  old  bloody  fray ; 
And  little  Union  kindly  gives 

Our  Orator  to-day.* 

And  next  comes  Stafford,  with  her  Springs, 

Perennial  in  their  flow, 
Which  cured  all  sorts  of  invalids 

A  hundred  years  agoi 
The  Saratoga  of  its  time, 

Bethesda  of  its  day, 
Where  fashion  gathered  with  disease, 

And  went  in  health  away. 

The  same  old  story  then  as  now ; 

To  sick  and  halt  and  lame, 
If  angels  only  stirred  the  pool, 

The  blessings  surely  came ; 
While  Dr.  Willard,  on  the  hill, 

Whose  Christian  name  was  John, 
For  fifty  years  proclaimed  the  word, 

And  held  securely  on. 

And  Somers  had  her  Doctor  too, 

A  famous  man  of  yore, 
Who  taught  young  scribes  divinity, 

And  other  kindred  lore  ; 
For  Dr.  Backus  was  the  man, 

Commissioned  by  the  state, 
To  teach  her  theologues  to  think, 

And  likewise  to  orate. 

*  Rev.  Charles  Hammond,  LL.D.,  for  thirty  years  and  more 
principal  of  Monson  Academy.  Born  in  Union,  Conn.,  June 
15,  1813. 

11 


1.62  CELEBRATION"   AT   TOLLANI>, 

Fair  Ellington,  that  goodly  town, 

Was  but  a  parish  then ; " 
But  she  could  show  her  muster-roll 

Of  brave  and  sturdy  men  ; 
And  Wellington,  with  pastures  rough, 

And  here  and  there  a  rock, 
With  Noble  for  her  minister, 

Sent  forth  her  warlike  stock. 

But  for  a  steady  ministry, 

A  long  enduring  calm, 
Unchanging  through  those  troubled  years, 

Old  Tolland  bears  the  palm  : 
Good  Dr.  Nathan  Williams  stretched 

His  ministerial  line, 
From  seventeen  hundred  sixty, 

To  eighteen  twenty- nine. 

And  did  you  ever  climb  on  foot 

To  where  old  Bolton  stands  ? 
And  did  you  ever  look  about 

And  wish  you  owned  those  lands? 
But  Bolton  was  a  famous  town, 

Back  in  the  olden  time, 
And  kept  a  famous  minister, 

With  her  own  name  to  rhyme. 

She  sought  for  the  proprieties, 

The  fitnesses  of  things ; 
She  helped  young  poets  to  aspire, 

And  use  their  budding  wings  ; 


CELEBRATION    AT    TOLLAND.  163 

And  so  for  half  a  century, 

Boltori  sat  still  and  heard, 
While  Parson  Colton,  tall  and  quaint, 

Proclaimed  to  them  the  word. 

But  Bolton  had  a  pleasant  farm, 

A  neat  and  trim  estate, 
Just  northward  from  her  hills  of  rock, 

And  beds  of  mica  slate, 
Just  where  the  sharp  and  shaggy  cliffs 

Melt  into  sandstone  soil, 
And  where  the  landscape's  wavy  lines 

In  graceful  circles  coil. 

There  classic  Tankeroosan  ran, 

Fed  by  the  mountain  rills ; 
And  there  the  foaming  Hockanum 

Went  leaping  doAvn  the  hills  ; 
And  there  good  parson  Kellogg  preached, 

And  passed  his  life  away, 
And  left  his  lineage  behind, 

An  honored  name  to- day. 

The  Vernon  folks,  they  used  to  say, 

Were  just  a  little  proud ; 
They  held  their  heads  a  trifle  high, 

Because  they  were  allowed 
To  leave  the  ancient  granite  hills, 

And  bring  their  substance  down, 
And  have  a  parish  by  themselves, 

Which  grew  to  be  a  town.. 


164        CELEBRATION  AT  TOLLAND. 

[The  speaker  pauses  here  to  state, 

That  in  his  humble  way, 
He  helped  to  raise  the  meeting-house 

Which  Vernon  has  to-day: 
He  helped,  by  sipping  of  the  punch, 

Which  flowed  in  large  supplies, 
By  tossing  pins  for  men  to  catch, 

And  eating  of  the  pies.] 

Old  Mansfield  sends  her  honored  names 

Along  from  age  to  age, 
And  Dr.  Richard  Salter  lives 

On  many  a  glowing  page : 
Her  scholars  and  her  men  of  war 

Have  earned  a  just  renown, 
And  send  their  gathered  laurels  back, 

To  dignify  the  town. 

We  tarry  next  at  Coventry, 

At  parish  number  one, 
Where  Stephen  Burroughs  went  to  school 

To  parson  Huntington ; 
And  then  we  pass  to  number  two, 

Where  Rev.  Nathan  Strong 
Filled  out  his  earthly  ministry, 

Full  half  a  century  long. 

Upon  this  consecrated  soil, 
Brave  Nathan  Hale  was  born ; 

Whose  noble  deeds  and  burning  words 
Th'  historic  page  adorn. 


CELEBRATION   AT    TOLLAND.  165 

O,  fearful  was  that  stern  decree, 

And  bloody  the  command, 
That  doomed  this  patriot  youth  to  die, 

A  martyr  for  his  land. 

For  life  was  sweet  and  hope  was  strong, 

And  love,  with  rainbow  light, 
Made  all  the  future  prospects  gleam. 

In  beauty  on  his  sight ; 
Calmly  he  saw  that  light  depart, 

And  death  shades  drawing  nigh, 
He  died  for  his  beloved  land, 

As  only  heroes  die. 

Over  that  martyr  grave  we  drop 

Our  tender  tears  to-day, 
For  names  like  his  forever  live, 

And  cannot  pass  away. 
Long  as  our  liberties  shall  last, 

And  virtue  shall  prevail, 
Our  unborn  sons  will  safely  keep 

The  name  of  NATHAN  HALE. 

And  next,  Columbia  as  of  old 

Sits  silent  on  her  hills, 
But  she  has  sent  her  influence  forth 

In  many  widening  rills  ; 
For  Dr.  Wheelock  did  not  take 

Her  glory  all  away, 
When  he  removed  that  Indian  school  * 

Up  where  the  forests  lay. 

*  Moor's  Indian  Charity  School,  which  Dr.  Eleazer  Wheelock 
took  up  to  Hanover,  N.  11.,  and  which  soon  became  Dartmouth 


166  CELEBRATION   AT    TOLLAND. 

We  count  the  names  upon  her  roll, 

And  tell  her  glories  o'er, 
How  she  sent  out  her  college  boys 

In  numbers  by  the  score ; 
And  many  an  honored  name  is  traced 

Back  to  her  rocky  height, 
Which,  in  the  after  years,  became 

A  bright  and  shining  light. 

And  so  Columbia  touched  the  world 

Alike  through  church  and  state ; 
Her  parson  Brockway  had  a  son 

Whose  name  was  Diodate ; 
He  served  the  church  in  Ellington, 

While  fifty  years  rolled  on, 
And  furnished  for  the  County's  use 

A  man,  whose  name  was  John.* 

So  reach  we  now  the  peaceful  vale, 

Where  old  Hop  river  flows, 
Winding  along  its  verdant  banks, 

And  singing  as  it  goes. 
Not  the  fair  vale  of  Rasselas, 

That  home  of  ancient  bliss, 
Which  slept  amid  the  circling  hills, 

Had  greater  charms  than  this. 

How  often  in  the  days  of  youth, 
When  hope  was  clear  and  bright, 

I've  journeyed  through  that  pleasant  dale 
By  dwellings  clean  and  white ; 

*  Hon.  John  H.  Brockway,  a  most  useful  public  man, 
M,  C.  1839-1843. 


CELEBRATION    AT    TOLLAND.  167 

I've  seen  the  valley,  when  it  felt 

The  rosy  breath  of  June, — 
I've  seen  it,  when  its  meadows  slept 

Beneath  the  harvest  moon. 

And  when  the  iron  horse  was  sent 

Along  this  grassy  way, 
To  break  the  ancient  quietude 

With  his  infernal  neigh, 
He  seemed  some  dragon,  gaily  dressed, 

Some  demon  in  disguise, 
Like  Satan,  when,  in  friendly  garb, 

He  entered  Paradise. 

And  this  sweet  vale  of  Andover 

Saw  a  fair  child  arise, 
Who  now  has  closed  his  earthly  toil, 

And  passed  within  the  skies  ; 
His  graceful  labors  stand  impressed 

On  many  a  learned  page, 
And  Dr.  Sprague's  most  noble  name  * 

Shall  live  from  age  to  age. 

So  now  we  bid  the  vale  adieu, 

And  mount  to  Gilead's  height, — 
From  Gilead's  rocks  the  prophet  came, 

Elijah  the  Tishbite ; 
To  keep  the  ancient  record  good, 

Elijah  reappears, 
To  fill  old  Gilead's  ministry,  • 

For  five  and  forty  years. 

*  Rev.  William  B.  Sprague,  D.D.,  of  Albany,  author  of  An 
nals  of  the  American  Fulpit,  9  vols.,  and  many  other  works. 


168  CELEBRATION   AT    TOLL  AND. 

There  was  a  Lothrop  to  his  name; 

And,  as  the  story  goes, 
He  saw,  one  Sabbath  afternoon, 

His  hearers  in  repose  ; 
He  stopped  and  said — "  Of  all  my  flock, 

One  half  are  fast  asleep, 
And  it  seems  pitiful  enough 

To  make  the  angels  weep." 

Up  sprang  a  bold  parishioner, 

Whose  righteous  soul  was  stirred, 
And  looking  round,  said  he  "  Not  quite, 

I  think  about  a  third." 
By  this  the  sleepers  were  awake, 

For  the  remaining  way, 
And  heard  what  earnest  closing  words 

The  preacher  had  to  say. 

At  last  we  enter  Hebron  town, 

Place  of  ancestral  rest, 
Where  our  brave  patriot  fathers  caught 

A  Tory  in  the  nest. 
I  heard  the  story  in  my  youth, 

The  strange  exciting  tale, 
How  nearly  Parson  Peters  *  came 

To  riding  on  a  rail. 

I  heard  it  from  the  lips  of  one 

Who  saw  that  cavalcade : 
The  fiery  horsemen  from  the  towns, 

On  their  tumultuous  raid  ;. 

*  Rev.  Samuel  A.  Peters,  D.O.,  LL.D.,  nn  Episcopal  minis 
ter,  author  of  an  imaginary  history  of  Connecticut. 


CELEBRATION  AT  TOLLAND.         169 

And  Parson  Peters  sought  a  home 

Beyond  the  briny  sea, 
And  there  he  nourished  his  revenge 

And  wrote  his  history. 

Hence  came  that  famous  code  of  "  Laws," 

Denominated  "  Blue," 
Which  though  a  thousand  times  denied, 

Will  still  turn  up  as  true ; 
Do  what  we  will,  we  cannot  hope 

That  ancient  lie  to  stay, 
And  see  it  fairly  laid  to  rest, 

Until  the  Judgment  day. 

In  closing  this  survey,  we  wish 

To  recapitulate, 
And  if  our  metre  will  allow, 

A  marvellous  fact  to  state : 
There  were,  one  hundred  years  ago, 

As  we  have  made  our  rounds, 
Just  sixteen  parishes  within 

These  ancient  county  bounds. 

Each  parish  had  its  minister, 

A  man  of  college  lore, 
Whose  average  ministry  held  on 

To  forty  years  and  more ; 
Is  it  not  healthy  to  review 

This  ancient  land  of  rocks, 
Where  pastors  stayed  till  hair  grew  gray, 

And  slept  amid  their  flocks? 


170        CELEBRATION  AT  TOLLAND. 

Let  us  return  once  more  along  our  track, 

And  bring  an  old  and  simple  legend  back : 

A  tale  of  truth,  and  yet  a  tale  untold, 

A  homely  record  from  those  days  of  old. 

A  stout  young  farmer  on  the  Hebron  soil, 

Just  come  of  age,  with  ready  hands  for  toil, 

Had  settled  down  for  his  laborious  life, 

With  rocky  farm,  with  young  industrious  wife, 

When  the  wild  sounds  from  Lexington  were  heard, 

And  the  new  household  with  the  cry  was  stirred ; 

But  through  the  scenes  of  seventeen  seventy- five, 

He  stayed  at  home  to  guard  the  forming  hive. 

In  seventy- six  the  war  cloud  rolled  away 

And  settled  grimly  round  Manhattan  Bay ; 

Ere  spring  had  passed,  that  ringing  call  for  men 

Went  through  our  little  State  from  hill  to  glen : 

Old  Put  had  sounded  out  the  bold  refrain, 

And  Trumbull  called,  who  never  called  in  vain. 

So  the  young  farmer  hastened  to  the  strife ; 

Left  the  spring  work,  and  left  his  faithful  wife, 

Kissed  the  young  babe,  their  first  and  new-born  child, 

Soothed  the  young  mother  with  his  accents  mild, 

Shouldered  his  gun  and  vanished  o'er  the  hill, 

To  join  the  camp,  and  learn  a  soldier's  drill. 

He  counted  that  the  rules  of  war  would  yield, 

Ere  his  departure  to  the  distant  field, 

A  respite  brief,  a  passing  day's  reprieve 

To  come  once  more  and  take  his  parting  leave. 

But  in  this  camp  life,  short  had  been  his  stay, 

When  came  a  summons  brooking  no  delay. 

The  troops  must  hasten  to  the  scene  of  strife ; 

He  penned  a  hasty  message  to  his  wife, 


CELEBRATION  AT  TOLLAND.        171 

To  send  the  garments,  which  her  hands  had  wrought, 

Those  products  of  her  lonely  silent  thought. 

But  the  young  wife  had  bolder  thoughts  than  this  ; 

She  would  not  lose  that  promised  farewell  kiss  ; 

And  so  she  nursed  her  little  babe  to  rest, 

Fixed  him  securely  in  his  cradle  nest, 

Caught  the  young  horse,  in  pastures  roaming  free, 

Now  antic  with  his  new  found  liberty ; 

Bridled  and  saddled  him  with  ready  hand, 

And  made  him  subject  to  her  swift  command ; 

Fastened  the  house,  and  mounting  on  his  back, 

With  her  choice  bundle  took  the  well-known  track ; 

Sped  o'er  the  hills  along  the  rocky  way, 

And  reached  the  place  where  the  encampment  lay. 

It  was  the  rosy,  verdant  month  of  June, 

A  hot  and  sultry  summer  afternoon ; 

Brief  was  the  parting — priceless  though  but  brief, 

And  the  full  heart  had  found  a  sweet  relief. 

As  she  turned  homeward  to  her  lonely  nest, 

A  thunder  cloud  was  rising  in  the  west ; 

Its  distant  mutterings  sounded  in  her  ear, 

Quickened  her  speed  and  chilled  her  soul  with  fear. 

Not  half  her  journey  had  as  yet  been  done, 

When  the  dark  clouds  shut  off  the  cheerful  sun, 

And  bursting  bolts  amid  the  tempest  played, 

Till  horse  and  rider  were  like  afraid. 

Next  came  the  driving  wind  and  drenching  rain, 

And  the  fierce  tempest  swept  o'er  hill  and  plain. 

But  never  yet  a  thunder  gust  so  wild 

To  keep  an  anxious  mother  from  her  child ; 

She  only  saw  that  lonely  cradle  bed, 

And  through  the  storm  with  quicker  pace  she  sped, 


172        CELEBRATION  AT  TOLLAND. 

Till  at  her  gate  she  dropped  the  slackened  rein, 
Took  a  quick  peep  through  the  small  window-pane, 
And  all  was  right.     There  still  and  snug  and  warm, 
Untroubled  by  the  tumult  of  the  storm, 
Her  babe  was  sleeping,  and  her  soul  at  rest ; 
The  winds  might  howl  along  the  troubled  west, 
But  light  would  rise  and  better  days  impart ; 
And  she  had  felt  the  1: eatings  of  that  heart, 
Bound  to  her  own  in  love's  most  sacred  tie, 
And  she  would  wait  till  those  sad  years  went  by. 
This  is  one  record  from  that  ancient  past, 
With  no  dark  clouds  nor  shadows  overcast. 
The  years  moved  on— the  tempests  moved  away, 
And  brought  again  the  brighter  better  day. 
That  stout  young  farmer  and  his  prudent  wife 
Lived  through  long  years  of  their  laborious  life ; 
That  sleeping  babe  was  but  the  first-born  child 
Of  a  long  line,  this  mother's  care  beguiled. 

And  now  unto  the  Lord  our  God, 

All  might  and  power  belong ; 
His  was  the  everlasting  strength, 

That  made  our  fathers  strong ; 
As  on  an  eagle's  mighty  wings, 

Through  storms  and  toils  untold, 
He  lifted  them  and  carried  them, 

Through  all  those  days  of  old. 

And  as  the  rolling  years  shall  pass, 

And  new  born  ages  rise, 
As  other  generations  look 

Upon  these  hills  and  skies ; 


OLD   WINDSOR.  173 

Let  them  behold  Thy  glory,  Lord, 

And  follow  Thy  commands, 
So  shall  the  land  we  love,  become 

The  wonder  of  all  lands. 


CHURCH  OF  OLD  WINDSOR,  CONN. 

MARCH  30th,  1630—1880. 

ROLL  back  the  curtains  of  the  years,  and  let  our  eyes 

behold 
The  distant  times,  the  ancient  ways,  the  sturdy  men  of 

old; 
Across  the  stormy  deep  they  came,  the  forest  wilds  they 

trod, 
To  find  a  home  for  liberty,  a  temple  for  their  God. 

They  rested  by  the  rocky  shore,  till  shone  the  western 

star, 

To  point  them  to  a  fertile  vale,  a  peaceful  home  afar ; 
They  struggled  through  the  pathless  woods,  till  full 

before  their  sight, 
Spread  the  fair  valley,  broad  and  green,  bathed  in  its 

vernal  light. 

They  saw  the  river  flowing  by,  fed  from  its  ancient  rills, 
Bearing  its  wealth  of  waters  down  from  the  far  north 
ern  hills ; 

In  silence  and  in  solitude  for  ages  it  had  flowed, 
To  make  these  lowlands  beautiful,  most  meet  for  man's 
abode. 


174  OLD    WINDSOR. 

And  now  they  heard  the  voice  of  God,  as  Israel  heard 

of  old, 
Saying :  Be  strong  and  fear  ye  not,  let  all  your  hearts 

be  bold, 
This  swelling  Jordan  ye  shall  pass  beneath  my  guiding 

hand, 
And  here  your  weary  feet  shall  rest,  within  this  goodly 

land. 

The  Lord  thy  God  He  giveth  thee  this  land  of  brooks 

and  rills, 
Of  fountains  and  of  depths  that   spring  from  valleys 

and  from  hills ; 

A  land  of  barley  and  of  wheat,  of  corn  and  wine  and  oil, 
In  plenty  shalt  thou  eat  thy  bread,  upon  this  fruitful 

soil. 

When  thou  hast  eaten  and  art  full,  then  shalt  thou  bow 

the  knee, 
And  bless  the  Lord  for  this  good  land  He  giveth  unto 

thee: 

Let  not  thy  heart  be  lifted  up  in  boastful  pride  to  say, 
Mine  own  right  hand  hath  gotten  me  the  wealth  I  share 

to-day. 

Thou  shalt  remember  all  the  way  the  Lord  thy  God 

hath  led, 
To  point  thy  pathway  through  the  sea,  through  deserts 

wild  and  dread ; 
If  thou  forsake  the  Lord  thy  God,  His  favor  He  will 

hide, 
And  thou,  like  nations  gone  before,  shalt  perish  in  thy 

pride. 


OLD    WINDSOR.  175 

What  brought  these  way-worn  wanderers,  these  weary 

households  here, 
So  far  from  home  and  kindred  ties  and  all  they  held 

most  dear? 
What  nerved  their  hearts  to  cross  the  sea  and  tread 

this  forest  path, 
To  brave  the  hungry  beasts  of  prey, — the  savage  in  his 

wrath  ? 

A  tyrant  king  had  risen  up  to  rule  with  iron  rod ; 

A  haughty^priest  had  strode  between  their  consciences 

and  God : 
To  haughty  priest  or  tyrant  king,  they  would  not  bend 

the  knee ; 
Come  exile,  chains  or  prison  walls,  their  souls  should 

still  be  free ! 

Such  was  the  cup  of  bitterness  our  fathers  had  to  drink 
Such  was  the  penal  doom  prepared  for  men  who  dared 

to  think ; 
So  was  the  good  seed  sifted  out  by  God's  mysterious 

hand, 
To  plant  this  empire  of  the  west,  this  joy  of  many  a  land. 

And  now  behold  these  exiles  here,  John  Warham  and 

his  flock, 
Made  up  of  good  old  English  names,   and  good  old 

English  stock ; 
They  come  with  hearts  that  trust  in  God,  and  hands 

made  strong  for  toil, 
To  build  their  rude  and  humble  homes  and  break  the 

waiting  soil. 


176  OLD   WINDSOR. 

They  clustered  on  this  rising  ground,  where  now  their 

ashes  rest, 
They  saw  the  valley's  outmost  bounds,  the  blue  hills 

east  and  west ; 

The  little  river  at  their  feet  in  quiet  murmured  by. 
And  the  great  river,  broad  and  deep,  lay  full  before  their 

eye. 

The  dusky  children  of  the  woods  were  glancing  to  and 

fro, 
With  faces  like  the  mystic  sphinx,  whose  meaning  none 

might  know ; 
They  thronged  about  these  river  lands,  they  wandered 

by  the  streams, 
The  rambled  through  the  forest  paths  and  dreamed  their 

forest  dreams. 


They  sowed  these  broad  and  fertile  fields  with  arrow 
heads  and  spears, 

A  harvest  for  the  farmer- boys  to  crop  in  after  years ; 

The  plough- share  still  shall  turn  them  up,  while  cen 
turies  roll  apace, 

Or  sifting  winds,  on  sandy  knolls,  make  bare  their 
hiding-place. 


And  not  their  arrow-heads  alone,  their  ancient  names 

are  found, 

Still  clinging  to  the  modern  soil  in  all  the  region  round  ; 
Podunk  and  old  Poquonnoc,  Scaiitic  and  Scitico 
Recall  to  us  that  dusky  race  that  vanished  long  ago. 


OLD    WINDSOR  177 

But  who  shall  paint  those  earliest  years  and  bring  their 

dark  to  light,— 

The  heavy  burdens  of  the  day,  the  watches  of  the  night? 
Those  nights  when  mothers  dared  not  close  their  weary 

eyes  to  rest, 
But  clasped  their  babes  with  every  noise  more  closely 

to  their  breast. 

The  first  foundations  were  not  laid  when  war's  wild 
notes  were  heard, 

And  dire  alarm  and  tragic  fear  through  every  house 
hold  stirred, 

And  well  the  stoutest  heart  might  quail,  the  boldest 
hold  their  breath, 

A  bloody  challenge  had  been  given,— its  issue,  life  or 
death. 

But  soon  the  black  cloud  rolled  away,  the  bright  sun 

shone  again, 
When    crowned   with   victory   homeward   came   John 

Mason  and  his  men. 
That  bloody  Pequot  race  was  gone,   had  perished  past 

recall ; 
The  infant  towns  kept  jubilee,  in  gladness  o'er  its  fall. 

Their  Indian  neighbors  too  were  glad,  and  danced  with 

forest  mirth, 
For  now  their  hateful  cruel  foe  was  blotted  from  the 

earth ; 

The  good  news  run  along  the  shore  to  Plymouth  and 
the  Bay, 

And  all  New  England  joined  to  keep  a  glad  Thanks? 

giving  Day. 
12 


178  OLD    WINDSOR. 

In  modern  "  piping  times  of  peace  "  around  their  genial 

fires, 
Their  puny  sons  may  criticize  and  harshly  judge  their 

sires, 
But  that  wild  tribe  had  sowed  the  wind  along  its  bloody 

path,. 
And  now  had  reaped  the  whirlwind  in  all  its   direful 

wrath. 

The  years  passed  on.    The  little  one  became  a  thousand 

strong, 
The  small  one  stretched  its  growing  length,  the  river 

sides  along, 
The  gloomy  shadows  disappeared  before  the  woodman's 

blows, 
The  wilderness  began  to  bloom  and  blossom  as  the  rose. 

They  sowed  and  reaped,  they  bought  and  sold,  they 

wedded  and  were  wed, 
The  gray-haired  fathers  passed  away,  and  children  rose 

instead ; 

The  catechism  taught  them  all  about  The  Moral  Plan, 
And  every  little  child  could  tell  the  chiefest  end  of  man. 

Their  tools  were  rough,  their  gains  were  small,  but  still 
with  courage  stout, 

They  taxed  themselves  in  every  war  to  help  old  Eng 
land  out : 

They  fought  the  Indians  and  the  French  on  many  a 
stubborn  field, 

They  fought  the  Saybrook  Platform  too,  and  made  the 
clergy  yield. 


OLD    WINDSOR.  179 

And  when   Sir  Andros  came  in  state,   to  take   their 

charter  back, 
The  lights  went  out,  the  charter  too,  and  none  could  tell 

its  track ; 
When  Andros  left  for   Boston  town,   defeated  in  his 

plan, 
'Tis  safe  to  say  he  rode  away  a  madder,  wiser  man. 

They  fired  the  Primer  at  him  too — they  taught  the  boys 

to  say 
Those  rhymes  about  the  Royal  Oak  in  quite  another 

way. 

His  Royal  Majesty  was  dropt,  and  by  a  rendering  free, 
The  Charter  Oak  it  was  that  saved  the  Peoples  Liberty.. 

Then  came  the  news  that  James  had  gone — last  of  those 
Stuart  Kings  ; 

The  joyful  tale  flew  o'er  the  land,  as  on  an  eagle's 
wings ; 

The  modest  charter  ventured  out  from  its  dark  hiding- 
place, 

And  for  a  hundred  years  shed  down  its  mild  benignant 
grace. 

Beneath  its  just  and  peaceful  sway  the  people  dwelt 

secure ; 
Their  Governors  were  righteous  men,  their  magistrates 

were  pure : 

They  did  not  look  across  the  sea  to  wait  the  royal  nod 

They  chose  for  office  whom  they  would,  their  chartered! 

rights  were  broad. 


180  OLD    WINDSOR. 

And  so  the  strange  thing  came  to  pass,  in  seventeen 

seventy -five,* 
That  Brother  Jonathan  was  found  head  of  the  patriot 

hive ; 

In  all  the  thirteen  colonies,  no  Governor  but  he 
Was  ranged  upon  the  people's  side,  a  friend  of  liberty. 

The  women  of  the  olden  times  were  busy  as  the  men, 
For  home-made  clothes  and  household  cares  were  all  in 

order  then ; 
The  maidens  spun  the  fleecy  wool,  the  mothers  spun  the 

flax, 
What  time  the  men  folks  were  abroad  and  busy  with 

the  axe. 


The  big  wheel  and  the  little  wheel  kept  up  their  buzzing 

sound, 
Till  all  the  ye"arly  stock  was  spun,  and  all  the  yarn  was 

wound, 
And  then  the  pounding  loom  began,  beneath  each  rustic 

roof, 
With  flying  shuttle  to  and  fro,  to  join  the  warp  and 

woof. 

*  At  the  breaking  out  of  the  Revolutionary  War,  in  1775, 
Jonathan  Trumbull,  of  Lebanon,  was  Colonial  Governor  of 
Connecticut,  having  been  in  office  since  1769,  and  continuing 
till  1783.  By  the  Charter  of  Connecticut,  obtained  by  the 
younger  John  Winthrop  in  1G62  from  Charles  II.,  England  held 
no  veto  on  the  action  of  the  people  in  their  choice  of  Governor. 
In  the  other  Colonies  generally  the  Governors  were  of  foreign 
appointment,  and,  of  course,  were  with  the  King.  But  Goy. 
Trumbull  was  with  the  people;  and  Washington,  when  in 
doubt,  used,  it  is  said,  to  remark,  "  We  must  see  what  Brother 
Jonathan  will  say."  Hence  the  term  "  Brother  Jonathan." 


OLD    WINDSOR.  181 

And  many  a  Windsor  lad  at  Yale,  some  Ellsworth, 

Rockwell,  Stiles, 

A  Wolcott  or  an  Edwards  boy,  begirt  with  ladies'  smiles, 
Has  mounted  up  to  speak  his  piece  upon  Commencement 

Day, 
Proud  in  his  brand-new  suit  of  clothes,  made  in  this 

simple  way. 

The  ruddy  maidens  of  those  years,  had  they  been  bought 

and  sold, 
If  judged  by.  any  modern  rate,  were  worth  their  weight 

in  gold ; 
No  foreign  Bridgets   can  be  hired  to  do  as  much  as 

they, 
Who  did  it  all  for  kindred  love  and  in  a  filial  way. 

What  though  their  hands  were  hard  with  toil,  with 

household  work  and  care, 
No  worthier  damsels  could  be  found  man's  destinies  to 

share ; 
For  they  could  fill  whatever  place  unto  their  lot  might 

fall, 
And  give  to  life  a  dignity  in  cottage  or  in  hall. 

Great  was  the  old  Town- meeting  day,  and  high  was  the 

debate, 
Touching    the    questions    which   arose    of    Town,    or 

Church,  or  State ; 
To  build  a  bridge  or  meeting-house,  the  voters   were 

the  same, 
Only  the  latter  clause  came  in  under  the  Parish  name. 


182  OLD   WINDSOR. 

And  great  was  old  Election  Day,  and  great  was  'lection 

cake, 
No  nourishment  for  growing  boys  a  prouder  seat  could 

take.  [year, 

Greatest  of  all,  Thanksgiving  day  ;  that  glad  day  of  the 
When  roaring  fires  and  chicken-pie  filled  every  house 

with  cheer. 

What  bard  shall  sing,  in  fitting  strains,  the  olden  dis 
trict  school? 

The  benches  small  and  benches  big, — the  master's 
wooden  rule? 

The  meaning  glances  round  the  room,  which  passed  and 
made  no  noise, 

The  nascent  loves  that  grew  and  died  among  the  girls 
and  boys : 

The  spelling- school  on  winter  nights,— the  clatter  and 

the  din 
Which  raged  before  the  hour  had  come  for  spelling  to 

begin :  [down, 

The  hard  words  flying  to  and  fro  to  knock  the  dunces 
The  bright- eyed  girl  or  bright- eyed  boy  that  waited  for 

the  crown : 

The  plain  old-fashioned  meeting-house,  with  square  and 

pen-like  pews : 
Where  winter  cold  was  kept  condensed,   all  prime  for 

Sunday  use : 
The  tything-man  that  sat  in  state  on  some  high  gallery 

perch, 
Who  rattled  round  and  made  more  noise  than  all  the 

boys  in  church : 


OLD    AVINDSOR.  183 

The  minister  who  stood  aloft  in  pulpit  quaint  and  tall, 

Above  his  head  a  sounding-board,  which  seemed  about 
to  fall : 

The  chorister,  who  gave  the  pitch  and  led  the  waiting 
choir, 

Beating  the  time  with  outspread  arms  to  lend  the  need 
ful  fire: 

The  singing- school  to  teach  the  youth  the  mysteries  of 

song, 
When  young  men  saw  the  maidens  home  and  made  the 

journey  long; 
The  sleigh-ride  on  a  moonlight  night,  the  passage  out 

and  back, 
When  jingling  bells  on  frosty  air  gave  note  to  clear  the 

track. 

But  time  would  fail  us  to  pursue  this  airy,  trifling  strain, 
And  so,  in  parting,  let  us  take  our  sober  song  again : 
For  though  life  everywhere  puts  on  its  playful,  sunny 

side, 
In  earnest  thoughts  and  earnest  deeds  our  fathers  lived 

and  died. 

Let  us  upraise  that  olden  song,— the  ancient  psalm  once 

more, 
Which  first  our  fathers   sang  when  they  had  reached 

New  England's  shore; 
Let  us  with  voice  and  heart  unite  before  our  fathers' 

God, 
That  He  would  give  us  strength  to  tread  the  ways  the 

fathers  trod, 


OLD    WINDSOR. 

Thou,  Lord,  hast  been  our  dwelling-place  ere  mountain 

tops  were  reared. 
Before  the  rolling  earth  was  shaped,  or  ancient  hill* 

appeared ; 
Through  countless  generations  past  Thy  goings  were- 

abroad, 
From  everlasting  is  Thy  name, — the  ever- living  God. 

Thou  turnest  man  again  to  dust,  frail  child  of  earth  and 

clay, 
While  in  Thy  sight  a  thousand  years  are  counted  but  a 

day; 

To  Thee  the  ages  come  and  go,  in  never-ending  flight, 
As  yesterday  when  it  is  past,  or  as  a  watch  by  night. 

Our  days  are  three- score  years  and  ten,  or,  if  Thou  givest 

strength, 
So  that  they  reach  to  four- score  years,  how  weary  is 

their  length ! 
For  heavy  .burdens  clog  their  path,  and  sorrows  cloud 

their  way, 
And  soon,  how  soon,  the  day  is  done,  we  haste  and  fly 

away  I 

So  teach  us,  Lord,  to  count  our  days,  daily  to  grow  more 

wise, 
And  let  Thy  glorious  work  appear  before  our  children's 

eyes ; 

The  beauty  of  the  Lord  our  God,  upon  us  may  it  rest, 
That  all  the  labor  of  our  hands  may  be  confirmed  and 

blest. 


ABSALOM.  185 


ABSALOM. 

THE  smooth-faced  demagogue — behold  he  waits, 

Watching,  with  restless  eye,  the  busy  throngs 
Press  in  and  outward,  at  the  city  gates, 

To  catch  the  men  who  have  some  fancied  wrongs ; 
With  knowing  wink,  he  beckons  them  aside, 

And  heaf  s,  with  pitying  look,  their  tales  of  grief, 
Asks  for  their  homes  and  children — feeds  their  pride, 

And  hopes  devoutly  they  may  find  relief. 

"David,  my  father,  now  is  growing  old, 

And  things  are  out  of  joint  beneath  his  reign ; 
Taxes  are  high — there's  too  much  liquor  sold, 

On  every  side  I  hear  the  folks  complain : 
I  have  no  taste  for  scenes  of  public  strife, 

But  still,  if  people  want  me  for  their  king, 
I  could  forego  the  charms  of  private  life 

And  to  the  office  some  small  talent  bring. 

"  Not  for  myself  do  I  desire  the  place, 

'Tis  for  the  people  only  I  would  serve'; 
To  work  reforms  amid  such  dire  disgrace 

Requires,  I  know,  considerable  nerve ; 
David  has  bad  advisers  in  his  court, — 

There's  Nathan,  Joab,  Zadok  and  the  rest, 
Who  use  their  offices  for  gain  and  sport, 

I  would  break  up  this  old  and  filthy  nest. 


186  ABSALOM. 

"  Not  for  myself  should  I  approach  the  throne; 

I  feel"  (he  drops  a  tear)  "  for  all  your  woes." 
(He  hides  his  face,  and  tries  to  hide  a  groan, 

While  his  breast  heaves  with  sympathetic  throes  ) 
So  after  months  of  this  mock  sympathy, 

The  wily  leader  hies  him  to  his  den, 
Kings  out  old  Israel's  ancient  battle- cry. 

And  round  him  flock  all  discontented  men. 

From  hills  and  vales  these  men  of  fancied  wrong 

Come  trooping  in,  in  many  a  straggling  bands 
And  day  by  day  the  host  is  waxing  strong, 

While  storm  and  revolution  fill  the  land: 
Spirits  of  evil  fly  upon  the  air, 

The  aged  monarch  trembles  on  his  throne, 
The  timid  wring  their  hands  in  mute  despair, 

And  the  new  upstart  calls  the  hour  his  own. 

But  soon  march  forth  King  David's  men  of  war 

With  their  bold  captain  firmly  at  their  head, 
And  with  one  stroke — one  sharp,  quick  battle-jar — 

This  wild  revolt  within  the  realm  is  dead ; 
The  cunning  leader,  forced  in  haste  to  flee, 

In  riding  by  an  oak,  too  near  the  limb, 
His  nice,  long  hair  gets  tangled  in  the  tree, 

And  this  same  Joab  does  the  job  for  him. 


ENTERING   YALE.  187 


HOW  I  FIRST  WENT  DOWN  TO  YALE. 

LISTEN,  my  comrades,  while  I  tell 
The  old  and  time-worn  tale, 

What,  in  the  years  long  gone,  befell, 
When  I  first  went  down  to  Yale ; 

When  things  went  on,  about  as  well, 
On  quite  a  different  scale. 

'Twas  in  the  month  of  August, 

A  hot  and  sultry  day, 
I  set  out  with  my  minister, 

All  in  his  "  one  hoss  shay," 
And  o'er  the  hills  and  plains  we  took 

Our  solitary  way. 

We  left  a  good  old  country  town, 
With  pastures  large  and  green, 

Where  meadows  wet,  and  uplands  dry, 
Diversified  the  scene, 

And  where  the  old  farm-houses 
In  comely  rows  were  seen. 

South  by  south-west  we  took  our  course, 

And  held  our  steady  way, 
To  reach  that  fair  and  sunny  plain 

Whereon  New  Haven  lay, 
With  her  two  mountains  standing  guard, 

To  keep  all  foes  away. 


188  ENTERING    YALE. 

At  twelve,  as  we  could  plainly  tell 
By  sound  of  country  clocks, 

We  made  a  halt  to  eat  our  lunch, 
Among  the  shady  rocks, 

And  gave  our  horse  a  peck  of  oats 
We  carried  in  the  box. 

And  when  the  sun,  all  burning  red, 
Was  sinking  in  the  west, 

And  our  tired  beast,  that  certainly 
Had  done  his  "  level  best," 

Began  to  hint,  by  many  signs, 
That  he  desired  to  rest ; 

We  came  upon  that  ridge  of  land 
Which  overlooks  the  Bay, 

And  on  my  eager  vision  burst 
Ten  thousand  stacks  of  hay ; 

A  sight  more  new  and  wonderful 
Than  any  seen  that  day. 

But  when  we  reached  New  Haven  town, 
And  saw  its  wondrous  green, 

And  when  those  time-worn  college  halls 
Just  westerly  were  seen, 

The  thoughts  I  had  within  my  breast 
Were  mighty  thoughts,  I  ween. 

The  place  was  full  of  life  and  stir, 
The  streets  were  glad  and  gay, 

Young  men  and  maidens  walked  abroad, 
Clad  in  their  best  array, 

And  every  thing  was  ripening 

For  an  old  Commencement  Day. 


ENTERING    YALE.  189 

And  when  the  hazy  moon-beams  fell 

Through  the  still  evening  air, 
'Twas  like  a  dream  of  ancient  rest, 

Far  off  from  sin  and  care ; 
The  world  was  clothed  in  beauty, 

Like  Eden,  bright  and  fair. 

O  days  of  youth !  when  fancy  wakes, 

And  clothes  the  earth  in  light, 
When  all  the  future  stands  arrayed 

In  colors  warm  and  bright, 
Would  that  the  world  could  look  once  more 
'"Just  as  it  looked  that  night! 

In  the  calm  gathering  twilight, 

That  evening,  might  be  seen 
A  youngster,  walking  forth  alone, 

With  reverential  mien, 
Though  others  might  describe  him 

As  "  a  wearing  of  the  green." 

Along  the  front  of  college  yard, 

With  thoughtful  step  and  slow, 

In  the  soft  silvery  moonlight 
He  wandered  to  and  fro, 

Until  a  chap  came  gliding  up 
He  did  not  chance  to  know. 

"  I  take  you  for  a  Freshman,  Sir ! 

If  I  may  judge  by  sight, 
And- 1  have  a  curiosity 

To  know  if  all  is  right. 
Pray  tell,  with  what  Society 

You  purpose  to  unite? 


190  ENTERING    YALE. 

"  If  to  the  Brothers  you  incline, 
Or  harbor  such  a  thought, 

I  tell  you,  Sir,  upon  my  word, 
That  you  had  better  not : 

They've  got  an  awful  debt  to  pay, 

For  those  nice  things  they  bought. 

"  The  only  safe  Society 

Is  Old  Linonia ; 
She  is  older  than  the  Brothers, 

Yes  Sir!  by  many  a  day, 
And  she's  got  a  splendid  brand-new  desk, 

And  not  a  cent  to  pay. 

"  Just  mark  the  College  Faculty, 

All  of  its  chiefest  men, 
Those  who  can  think  the  deepest, 

And  those  who  use  the  pen : 
They  joined  with  Old  Linonia, 

And  would  do  the  same  again." 

I  thanked  the  young  man  kindly, 

For  all  the  light  he  shed, 
I  knew  all  this  was  true  before, 

Yes,  every  word  he  said ; 
That  very  day,  my  minister 

Had  lodg'd  this  in  my  head. 

Scarce  had  this  fellow  vanished 

Across  the  college  green, 
When  up  there  came  another  chap 

Of  more  ferocious  mien ; 
Some  saucy  Sophs  were  just  behind 

To  see,  what  might  be  seen. 


ENTERING    YALE.  191 

"About  this  Bully  question,  Sir! 

On  which  side  do  you  vote? 
Is  your  opinion  all  made  up, 

Or  are  you  still  afloat  ? 
Just  make  a  statement,  if  you  please, 

And  let  me  make  a  note. 

"Are  you  aware  that  Bullyism 

Came  down  from  ages  hoary  ? 
That  by  it  Yale  is  what  she  is, 

With  all  her  ancient  glory  ? 
Go  ask  the  College  Faculty, 

They'll  tell  you  the  same  story. 

"If  you  don't  vote- for  Bully, 

I  give  you  warning  true, 
There  are  some  chaps  about  here 

To  take  and  put  you  through. 
You'll  find  Old  Yale  a  hotter  place, 

Than  Tophet  ever  knew." 

Off  through  the  dreamy  moonlight, 

This  stormy  fellow  goes, 
While  those  five  Sophs  behind  him, 

Put  their  thumbs  unto  their  nose, 
And  so  the  interview  was  brought 

To  a  successful  close. 

Once  more,  my  ancient  comrades, 

Come,  listen  unto  me, 
On  one  point,  I  am  very  sure, 

We  all  of  us  agree ; 
Things  now  are  very  different 

From  what  they  used  to  be. 


192  ENTERING    YALE. 

For  when  we  entered  College, 
We  all  remember  well, 

How  mightily  the  Tutors 
Did  common  men  excel; 

And  how  by  size  and  look  and  walk 
A  Senior  we  could  tell. 

But  now,  at  Yale  you  cannot  know 
A  Senior  from  a  Soph ; 

You  only  tell  a  Tutor, 

By  seeing  hats  go  off: 

So  great  the  change  you  feel,  at  heart, 
Inclined  to  laugh  and  scoff. 

Yes,  Tutors,  Seniors,  Juniors,  Sophs, 
Are  all  so  much  the  same, 

You  walk  about,  in  musing  mood, 
And  inwardly  exclaim, 

Where  are  those  old  distinctions  gone  i 
And  what  is  College  fame? 

The  age  has  grown  degenerate ; 

We  never  more  shall  hear 
Such  grand  and  lofty  orators, 

With  voices  ringing  clear, 
As  those  we  heard  in  College  halls, 

Back  in  our  Freshman  year. 

We  may  not  hope  to  see  again 
Men  so  august  and  great, 

Men  of  such  manly  stature 
And  of  such  high  estate, 

As  were  the  Seniors  when  we  passed 
In  at  the  College  gate. 


WHITTLING    SONG.  1  93 


ANGLO-SAXON  WHITTLING  SONG. 


"  Your  Yankee  is  always  to  be  found  with  a  jack  knife,  and 
when  he  has  nothing  else  todo,  is  eternally  whittling."—  Growl 
ing  old  Traveller. 

IN  the  olden  time  of  England,  the  days  of  Norman  pride. 
The  mail-clad  chieftain  buckled  on  his  good  sword  at 

his  side, 
And  mounted  on  his  trusty  steed,  from  land  to  land  he 

strayed, 

And  ever  as  he  wandered  on,  he  whittled  with  his  blade. 
O  those  foolish  days  of  whittling ! 

He  was  out  in  search  of  monsters — of  giants  grim  and 

tall, 
He  was  hunting  up  the  griffins— the  dragons  great  and 

small, 
He  broke  in  through  the  oak  doors  of  many  a  castle 

gate, 
And  what  he  whittled  when  within,  'tis  needless  to 

relate. 

O  those  foolish  days  of  whittling ! 

But  when  the  pomp  of  feudal  pride  like  a  dream  had 

passed  away, 
And  every  where  the  knightly  steel  was  rusting  to  decay, 

13 


194  WHITTLING    SONG. 

The  common -people  drew  their  blades  in  quite  another 

cause, 
And  in  the  place  of  giants  grim,  they  whittled  up  the 

laws. 

O  those  stern  old  days  of  whittling ! 

They    whittled   down   the   royal   throne  with   all    its 

ancient  might, 

And  many  a  tough  old  cavalier  was  whittled  out  of  sight ; 
They  whittled  off  the  king's  head,  and  set  it  on  the  wall, 
They  whittled  out  a  commonwealth,  but  it  could  not 

last  at  all. 

O  those  fiery  days  of  whittling ! 

There  came  across  the  stormy  deep,  a  stern  and  iron 

band, 
A  solemn  look  on  every  face — their  hatchets  in  their 

hand, 
They  whittled  down  the  forest  oak,  the  chestnut  and 

the  pine, 
And  planted  in  the  wilderness  the  rose-tree  and  the 

vine. 

O  those  fearful  days  of  whittling ! 

They  made  themselves  a  clearing,  and   housed   their 

little  freight, 
Then  put  their  Sunday  coats  on,  and  whittled  out  a 

state, 
They  cut  it  round  so   perfectly,  they  whittled  it  so 

"  true," 

That  it  still  stands  in  beauty  for  all  the  world  to  view. 
O  those  grand  old  days  of  whittling ! 


WHITTLING   SONG.  195 

When  England  sent  her  hirelings,  with  cannon,  gun  and 

blade, 
To  break  and  batter  down  the  State,  which  these  good 

men  had  made, 

The  people  seized  for  weapons  whatever  came  to  hand, 
And  whittled   these  intruders  back  and  drove  them 

from  the  land. 

O  the  heroic  days  of  whittling ! 

In  men  of  Saxon  blood  it  stays — this  love  of  whittling 

—still, 

And  something  must  be  whittled,  to  pacify  the  will. 
When  the  old  wars  were  over,  and  peace  came  back 

again, 
They  took  to  whittling  mountains,  and  filling  vale  and 

glen. 

O  those  peaceful  days  of  whittling ! 

They  whittled  out  the  railroad  path,  thro'  hill  and  rock 

and  sand, 
And  sent  their  snorting  engines  in  thunder  through  the 

land ; 
Sails  whitened  all  the  harbors,  the  mountain  valleys 

stirred, 
And  the  hum  and  roar  of  labor  through  all  the  land  was 

heard. 

O  those  busy  days  of  whittling ! 

But  there  long  had  dwelt  among  us  a  gaunt  and  hideous 

Wrong, 
Set  round  with  ancient  guarantees,  with  legal  ramparts 

strong ; 


196  WHITTLING    SONG. 

With  look  and  tone  defiant,  it  feared  not  God  or  man. 
But  snatched  on  every  side  for  power  to  work  its  wick 
ed  plan, — 

All  ripe  and  dry  for  whittling ! 


Of  old  this  Wrong  was  humble,  asking  with  pious  cry, 
This  only,  to  be  left  alone,  in  its  own  time  to  die ; 
But  fed  by  this  first  yielding,  bolder  and  bolder  grown. 
Shameless  before  the  nations  now,  it  reared  its  bloody 
throne ; 

The  time  draws  nigh  for  whittling ! 


"  Pride  goes  before  destruction,"  the  wise  man  said  of 

old, 
»'  Whom  the  gods  seek  to  ruin  they  first  make  mad," 

and  bold ; 

In  the  frenzy  of  its  madness,  this  Wrong  forgot  its  place, 
Came  out  with  noise  of  gongs  to  fright  our  Yankee 

whittling  race. 

God  gave  this  chance  for  whittling ! 


And  now  my  trusty  Saxons,  who  came  from  near  and 
far, 

Remember  who  your  fathers  were,  and  set  your  teeth 
for  war ; 

•«  Sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon,"  be  still  your  battle- 
cry, " 

And  strike  as  Samson  struck  of  old,  smite  Slavery  hip 
and  thigh ; 

Now  is  your  time  for  whittling ! 


GOLDEN    WEDDINGS.  197 

And  when  the  land  shall  rest  again  from  all  this  noise 

and  strife, 
And  Peace  her  olive-branch  shall  wave  o'er  this  broad 

realm  of  life, 

Fair  as  the  sun,  our  nation  before  the  world  shall  stand, 
Freedom  on  all  her  banners,  freedom  throughout  the 

land. 

O  these  grand  rewards  of  whittling ! 


GOLDEN  WEDDINGS. 
I. 

1820—1870. 

WE  gather  on  this  festive  night, 

And  send  our  memories  back, 
To  bring  again  the  vanished  years 

Along  life's  misty  track  ; 
To  call  to  mind  the  by- gone  days — 

"Those  good  old  times" — you  know, 
When  all  was  grand,  and  pure  and  true, 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

We  gather  in  this  happy  home, 

This  dear  parental  nest ; 
Which,  through  the  sunshine  and  the  storm, 

Our  Father's  love  has  blest : 


198  GOLDEN   WEDDINGS. 

We  count  the  sorrows  and  the  joys 
In  life's  unceasing  flow, 

Back  to  the  hour  this  home  began, 
Just  fifty  years  ago. 

The  men  and  women  of  that  age 

Were  hearty,  strong  and  bold ; 
They  went  to  meeting,— stayed  all  day,— 

Through  sternest  winter  cold : 
They  sat  and  rapped  their  aching  feet, 

To  make  the  warm  blood  flow  ; 
They  blew  their  frozen  finger-ends, 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

One  of  the  questions  of  that  time, 

O'er  which  debate  waxed  hot, 
Was  that  great  question,  fresh  and  new, 

To  have  a  stove  or  not ; 
"  Our  fathers  used  no  stoves  in  church, 

Then  why  should  we  do  so  "  ? 
That  was  the  way  they  looked  at  things 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

Our  fathers  used  no  stoves  in  church, 

But  still  our  mothers  did ; 
Those  little  square  tin  boxes, 

In  which  the  fire  was  hid : 
To  keep  the  maids  and  matrons  warm, 

These  stoves  passed  to  and  fro, 
While  tougher  men  and  boys  went  cold. 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 


GOLDEN    WEDDINGS.  199 

Then,  at  the  church,  the  preacher  stood, 

Perched  high  against  the  wall, 
With  the  huge  sounding-board  above, 

Which  seemed  about  to  fall : 
With  overcoat  and  mittens  on, 

To  keep  him  in  a  glow, 
He  whiled  away  the  wintry  hour, 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

And  when  he  took  his  walks  abroad, 

Men  paused  as  he  went  by, 
To  pay  a  graceful  courtesy, 

And  look  with  reverent  eye : 
And  school- boys,  as  they  saw  him  come, 

Arranged  themselves  in  row, 
And  made  him  their  profoundest  bow, 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

Those  square,  high- backed,  old-fashioned  pews, 

With  open  work  about,  [heads, 

Through   which  small  boys  could  push  their 

But  could  not  pull  them  out: 
We  shall  not  see  the  like  again, 

Wherever  we  may  go  ; 
They  're  lost  and  gone — those  queer  old  pewa 

Of  fifty  years  ago. 

To  keep  awake,  in  summer  time, 

We  helped  the  feeble  will, 
By  eating  generous  quantities 

Of  fennel  and  of  dill: 


200  GOLDEN    WEDDINGS. 

Or  to  the  woods,  in  pious  crowds, 

We  used  at  noon  to  go, 
And  pick  the  fresh  young  wintergreen, 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

tip  stairs,  on  one  side,  sat  the  girls, 

On  one  side  sat  the  boys, 
They  sometimes  caught  each  other's  eyes, 

But  did  not  make  a  noise ; 
They  were  afraid  they  might  wake  up 

The  old  folks,  down  below ; 
That  was  the  way  boys  looked  at  things 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

If  there  are  any  modern  boys, 

Who  happen  here  to-night, 
To  hear  about  those  good  old  times 

When  all  the  boys  did  right ; 
As  soon  as  they  have  heard  the  tale, 

I  want  them  all  to  go, 
And  imitate  those  noble  boys 

Of  fifty  years  ago. 


Enough,  enough,  those  good  old  times 

Deserve  a  tenderer  strain, 
For  then,  as  now,  earth's  purest  joys 

Were  mixed  with  keenest  pain  ; 
And  youthful  eyes,  that  then  shone  bright, 

With  radiant  hope  aglow, 
In  all  their  light,  were  quenched  in  death, 

Back,  fifty  years  ago. 


GOLDEN   WEDDINGS.  201 

How  many,  on  the  right  and  left, 

Have  dropt  their  heavy  load, 
And  vanished  from  our  mortal  sight, 

Along  life's  weary  road! 
We  are  but  strangers  on  the  earth, 

And  pilgrims  here  below, 
We  journey,  as  our  fathers  did, 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

For  all  God's  care  and  kindness,  shown 

To  this  long- wedded  pair, 
We  here  record  our  gratitude, 

In  humble  praise  and  prayer ; 
In  all  the  years  of  life,  we  walk 

In  ways  we  do  not  know, — 
So  is  it  now,  and  so  it  was 

In  the  long  years  ago. 

This  world  is  not  our  resting-place; 

We  tarry  but  a  day ; 
The  fair  and  shining  shores,  we  seek, 

Though  near,  seem  far  away ; 
The  crowding  generations  come, 

And  generations  go, 
And  life  and  death  are  mingled  still, 

As  fifty  years  ago. 


202  GOLDEN    WEDDINGS. 


II. 

1824—1874. 

LET  gladsome  songs  go  up  to-night, 

And  household  altars  burn, 
For  round  us  falls  a  golden  light, 
And  festal  days  return : 

No  day  is  like  that  olden  day, 
That  shines  on  us  from  far, 
When  hope  was  rising  o'er  our  way, 
Like  some  bright  morning  star. 

As  we  look  back  through  joy  and  pain, 

Along  the  misty  years, 
Our  pleasant  memories  rise  again, 
And  trouble  disappears : 

No  day  is  like  that  olden  day, 

When  life  was  fresh  and  strong, 
And  hearts  sang  out  their  happy  lay, 
As  birds  their  morning  song. 

And  what  has  earth  more  sweet  and  fair, 

Or  more  like  heaven  above, 
Than  those  pure  pleasures  which  we  share, 
In  ways  of  household  love? 
No  day  is  like  that  olden  day, 

When  love  first  shed  its  light, 
And  spread  around  our  earthly  way 
Its  colors  warm  and  bright. 


GOLDEN    WEDDINGS.  203 

The  children's  hearts  are  hereto-night, 

And  children's  children  sing, 
They  make  this  service  their  delight, 
And  grateful  offerings  bring : 
No  day  is  like  that  olden  day, 
"When,  sheltered  in  the  nest, 
Our  mother  sang  her  cradle  lay, 
And  hushed  our  griefs  to  rest. 

We  look  along  the  lengthened  years, 

Along  the  pathway  trod, 
In  all  the  journey  there  appears 
The  guiding  hand  of  God : 
No  day  is  like  that  olden  day, 

When  bending  low  in  prayer, 
Amid  the  perils  of  the  way, 
We  sought  a  Father's  care. 


in. 

1825—1875. 

IT  was  when  the  birds  were  singing, 
And  the  woods  with  music  ringing, 
When  bedecked  with  summer  glory, 
Fields  and  meadows  lay  in  bloom  ; 
When  the  sun  had  just  completed 
That  round  course  which  God  has  meted, 
And  stood  poised  in  tropic  splendor 
Scattering  all  the  northern  gloom  : 


204  GOLDEN    WEDDINGS. 

Then  a  young  man  and  a  maiden, 
With  life's  hopes  and  promise  laden, 
Full  of  dreams  and  gentle  visions 
Such  as  only  youth  can  know  ; 
Stood  before  the  bridal  altar, 
And  with  lips  that  did  not  falter, 
Took  the  vows  of  God  upon  them, 
Hand  in  hand,  through  life  to  go. 

Thus  their  mutual  love  they  plighted, 
And,  to-day,  with  hands  united, 

Children's  children  gathering  round  them. 

Here  before  their  God  they  stand ; 
From  that  goal,  whence  thus  they  started, 
Fifty  winters  have  departed, 

And  the  pilgrimage  draws  nearer, 
Nearer  to  the  border  land. 

Day  by  day,  their  God  has  led  them, 
Day  by  day,  has  clothed  and  fed  them, 
Kept  them  in  the  storm  and  tempest, 

Through  the  dangers  of  the  way ; 
Now  their  hearts,  though  tinged  with  sadness, 
Lift  on  high  their  songs  of  gladness, 
That  kind  heaven  to  them  has  granted 
To  behold  this  joyous  day. 

O  how  sweet  these  memories  olden ! 
When  the  future  bright  and  golden 
Beckoned  as  with  outstretched  finger, 
Bid  us  haste  to  taste  its  joy ; 


GOLDEN    WEDDINGS.  205 

When  the  pulse  of  youth  was  bounding, 
And  our  hearts  with  joy  resounding, 
.   Nature  played  and  danced  before  us, 
And  our  life  knew  no  alloy. 

Now  though  many  a  hope  be  blasted, 
Many  a  dream  which  we  forecasted ; 
Though  the  way  has  oft  been  weary, 

And  the  burdens  hard  to  bear : 
Out  of  pain  and  toil  and  sorrow, 
God  doth  make  this  bright  to-morrow, 
And  we  would  not  change  the  journey 
Which  we  make  beneath  His  care. 

Life  is  richer,  broader,  deeper, 
To  the  sad  and  patient  weeper, 

Than  to  him  who  knows  no  sorrow, 

Walking  ever  in  the  light : 

As,  when  storms  are  disappearing, 

And  the  clouds  are  lifting,  clearing, 

Sunset  comes  with  fuller  glory, 

As  the  day  descends  to  night. 

Simple  is  that  olden  story, 

Of  the  years  now  pale  and  hoary, 

When  the  church,  the  farm,  the  school-house* 

Made  the  round  of  country  life ; 
When  amid  these  northern  mountains, 
By  these  cool  clear  hillside  fountains, 
Lonely  households  lived  and  labored, 
Far  from  noise  and  city  strife. 


206  GOLDEN    WEDDINGS. 

Say  ye  not  that  life  is  barren  ; 
Sweeter  than  the  rose  of  Sharon 
Are  the  memories  that  cluster 

Round  a  life  in  honor  spent ; 
Bright  with  an  immortal  beauty 
Is  a  long  life,  linked  to  duty, 
Ever  toiling  and  aspiring, 
In  a  patient  sweet  content. 

With  sincerest  salutations, 
With  our  heart- felt  gratulations, 

We  would  bring  our  gifts  and  honors, 

At  th^is  happy  festive  hour ; 
Glad  that  we  have  been  invited, 
Thus  to  crown  these  heads  united, 
And  for  their  remaining  journey 
Crave  God's  kind  protecting  care. 


IV. 

1832—1882. 

SINCE  the  glad  marriage  bell  rang  out  its  sound, 
With  merry  notes  to  cheer  the  festive  crowd, 

How  many  gliding  months  have  seen  their  round, 
Through  changing  scenes  of  sunshine  and  of  cloud ! 

O  long-gone  day  of  early  love  and  light, 
When  fancy  shed  her  soft  romantic  gleams, 

When  with  strong  step  we  climbed  the  mountain  height, 
And  nought  could  break  our  sweet  and  golden  dreams. 


SILVER   WEDDING.  207 

Now  once  again,  in  sober  ripened  years, 

The  happy  pair  stand  here  before  their  God, 

Their  eyes  suffused  with  warm  and  grateful  tears, 
As  they  look  back  along  the  pathway  trod. 

And  now,  O  Father !  give  their  pilgrim  feet, 
Firmness  and  strength  for  the  remaining  way, 

Guide  them  through  wintry  storms  and  summer  heat, 
Till  they  shall  reach  the  glad  eternal  day ! 


SILVER   WEDDING. 

1845—1870. 

THEY  say  that  once  in  seven  years, 

Be  the  time  less  or  greater, 
For  systems  have  their  laws  of  change, 

Some  earlier  and  some  later ; 
Once  in  seven  years  then,  as  a  rule, 

The  art  called  vaccination 
Requires  to  be  done  over. 

For  its  own  preservation, 

It  happens  in  this  round  of  years, 

The  power  gets  so  abated, 
The  only  safe  way  is  to  go 

And  be  re- vaccinated ; 


208  SILVER    WEDDING. 

Thus  the  old  virtue  is  restored, 
The  former  force  imparted  ; 

And  the  same  influence  lives  again, 
As  fresh  as  when  it  started. 


It  has  been  found  in  modern  days 

The  same  law  holds  in  marriage, 
And  this  we  state,  with  no  intent 

To  slander  or  disparage ; 
But  in  this  world  of  wear  and  tear, 

Where  all  is  fading,  dying, 
The  nuptial  knot,  from  time  to  time, 

Itself  requires  re- tying. 

So  there  are  many  wedding  days, 

Besides  that  ancient  first  one, — 
In  fact,  upon  a  full  survey, 

That  may  be  called  the  worst  one ; 
The  system  takes  its  start  from  that, 

And  with  an  upward  taper, 
It  reaches  next  the  wedding  day 

Known  in  the  books  as  paper. 


Then  comes,  with  some  small  lapse  of  years, 

That  wooden  institution, 
Which  brings  the  pails  and  washtubs  in, 

In  rich  and  large  profusion  ; 
Yea  more,  as  Tennyson  has  sung 

In  his  enchanting  number, 
It  sometimes  fiddles  in  the  trees 

For  firewood  and  for  lumber. 


SILVER    WEDDING.  209 

Of  all  the  weddings  I  have  seen, 

Commend  me  to  a  tin  one ; 
It  sets  the  shining  things  about, 

All  in  a  way  to  win  one ; 
There  is  no  earthly  day  so  bright, 

At  least  so  far  as  I  know, 
Except  those  days  which  bring  the  tin, 

Known  at  the  banks  as  rhino, 

Then  follows  on,  in  order  due, 

Our  silver  wedding  season, 
Which  comes  in  what  Tom  Paine,  perhaps, 

Might  call  «  The  Age  of  Reason  ?' 
And  when  long  years  have  passed  away, 

And  life  grows  gray  and  olden, 
Then  comes  the  solemn  marriage  day, 

The  wedding  day  called  GOLDEN, 

Those  are  the  days  when  married  pairs, 

Once  more  rejuvenated, 
Go  on  their  way  again,  in  strength 

Confirmed  and  reinstated ; 
They  catch  again  the  radiant  gleam 

Of  all  that  far-off  glory,— 
They  hear  again,  in  tender  tones, 

The  old  bewitching  story. 


And  now  to  all  unmarried  men, 

Of  every  class  and  station, 
I  wish  to  speak  one  earnest  word, 

By  way  of  application: 
14 


210  OLD   DOG   SPRING. 

If  you  expect,  in  course  of  years, 
To  reach  a  silver  wedding, 

You  must  regard  first  principles. 
The  tables,  chairs  and  bedding. 

41  Order  is  heaven's  first  law" — so  sang 

A  famous  olden  poet ; 
And  all  we  learn  of  human  life 

Helps  to  confirm  and  show  it. 
These  pleasant  after- wedding  days, 

A  wooden  or  a  tin  one, 
How  can  you  ever  hope  to  see, 

Unless  you  dare  begin  one? 


JACKSON  FALLS,  N.  H.— AND    OLD   DOG 
SPRING. 

1866. 

DON'T  let  me  forget  to  make  mention 
Of  Old  Spring,  that  lives  near  the  Falls, 

And  gives  his  politest  attention 
To  wait  on  the  stranger  who  calls. 

As  the  men  are  all  busy  with  haying, 
And  the  women  are  cooking  the  trout, 

Old  Spring  cocks  his  eye  to  you,  saying, 
You  see  there  is  some  one  about. 


OLD   DOG   SPRING. 

I  am  ready  to  wait  on  you  now,  Sir, 
I  will  show  you  the  Falls,  if  you  please, 

I  will  give  you  my  choicest  bow-wow,  Sir, 
While  you  stroll  about  at  your  ease. 

Old  Spring,  how  lie  waits  on  the  stranger,^ 
Now  he  chit-chats  along  by  his  side, 

Now  he  barks,  to  scare  away  danger, 
Or  runs  on  before  as  a  guide. 

Yes,  Spring  is  a  funny  old  fellow, 
Not  half  of  his  wit  can  be  told ; 

He  can  out- rival  old  Punchinello, 
He  has  rare  tricks  yet  to  unfold, 

He  goes  to  attack  a  small  stone,  Sir, 
That  lies  half  way  up  in  the  glen ; 

Ooes  boldly—he  goes  all  alone,  Sir, 
This  wonder  of  dogs  and  of  men, 

Trom  the  bed  where  it  snugly  reposes^ 
He  has  dragged  his  old  enemy  out,; 

And  now  in  fierce  conflict  he  closes, 

And  makes  the  hills  ring  with  his  shout. 

And  now  he  comes  back  for  your  greeting. 
With  victory  gained  at  the  last, 

O  the  wonder  and  joy  of  that  meeting ! 
These  dangers  successfully  passed. 

You  must  treat  him  with  consideration; 

You  must  quiet  his  quick -beating  heart? 
You  must  lend  him  your  high  approbation, 

So  well  has  he  acted  his  part. 


212  A    CHANGE    OF    THE    MOON. 

So  let  all  our  enemies  perish ! 

As  that  stone  went  down  to  the  deep ; 
But  such  valor  we  ever  will  cherish, 

And  the  record  we  ever  shall  keep. 

Then  sing  we  the  fame  and  the  glory 
Of  Old  Spring,  that  lives  near  the  Falls, 

And  tell  to  our  children  the  story, 

How  he  waits  on  the  stranger  that  calls. 


A  CHANGE  OF  THE  MOOtf. 

A  PLAIN,  clever  man  is  my  neighbor  Gray, 

And  we  often  take  counsel  together ; 
He  lives  in  a  farm-house  over  the  way, 

And  is  wise  in  respect  to  the  weather ; 
He  watches  all  signs,  night,  morning,  and  noon, 
But  pins  his  great  faith  011  a  change  of  the  moon. 

In  the  dull,  drizzly  May,  when  the  signs  were  all  bad, 

And,  day  after  day,  it  kept  raining, 
When  the  farmers  were  sad,  and  the  women  were  madr 

And  all  the  wide  world  was  complaining; 
Farmer  Gray  went  on  piping  the  very  same  tune, 
"  It  will  never  clear  off  till  a  change  of  the  moon." 

I  admired  his  great  faith,  for  the  east  wind  blew  strong,- 

From  icebergs  and  isles  of  the  ocean, 
The  moon  had  changed  thrice,  while  the  storm  kept 
along, 


A    CHANGE    OF    THE    MOON.  213 

But  my  neighbor  still  stuck  to  his  notion ; 
At  length  it  cleared  up,  near  the  coming  of  June, 
Two  days  and  a  half  from  a  change  of  the  moon! 

In  the  long  summer  drought,  when  the  springs  had  run 
Not  a  sign  of  a  rain- cloud  appearing,  [dry, 

Neighbor  Gray,  who  knew  the  wherefore  and  why, 
Spake  out,  and  his  accents  were  cheering : 

•*«  We  are  bound  to  have  different  weather  soon, 

Por  to-morrow,  you   know,  there's    a  change  of  the 
moon/' 

I  sit  by  his  fire,  on  a  sharp  winter  night, 

When  the  glass  below  zero  is  ranging ; 
My  neighbor  instructs  me  with  honest  delight 

(For  his  faith  in  the  moon  is  unchanging). 
That  a  thaw  will  set  in  by  Saturday  noon, 
For  just  at  that  time  comes  a  change  of  the  moon. 

Heat  and  eold,  wet  and  dry,  or  whatever  the  grief 
Under  which  our  poor  earth  may  be  lying, 

Neighbor  Gray  knows  the  source  whence  must  come  our 
No  use  of  this  groaning  and  sighing;  [relief; 

He  tells  all  he  meets  that  a  change  will  come  soon, 

"  We  must  wait,  my  dear  friends,  till  a  change  of  the 
moon." 

He  cares  not  a  jot  for  the  college  or  school, 

And  passes  their  doings  unheeded, 
Still  he  holds  by  the  old  philosophical  rule, 

To  name  no  more  causes  than  needed ; 
And  as  one  is  enough,  the  rest  let  us  prune, 
And  make  all  things  proceed  from  a  change  of  the  moon. 


214  REVOLUTIONARY   TEA. 


REYOLUTIONARY  TEA. 
DEC.  18,  1773—1873. 

A  SONG  to-night,  and  a  legend, 

A  story  often  told, 
Of  the  brave  New  England  fathers,, 

In  the  stormy  days  of  old  ? 
A  tale  of  the  things  that  happened 

In  seventeen  seventy-three^ 
They  chose  that  year  so  it  might  rhyme- 

With  tea,  and  sea,  and  free,, 

With  jollity  and  glee, 
And  with  that  large  and  glorious  word,, 

A  nation's  liberty  - 

Those  men  were  wise  and  thoughtful, 

They  saw  a  coming  day, 
A  grand  good  time  for  speech  and  rhyme 

A  century  away ; 
And  they  knew  that  all  the  poets 

Must  make  their  wordy  rounds* 
And  fill  their  lines  out  merrily,. 

With  harmony  of  sounds. 

They  saw  that  this  would  bfr 

In  eighteen  seventy-three, 
And  so  they  had  compassion 

On  working-men  like  me. 


REVOLUTIONARY   TEA. 

Yes,  those  were  thoughtful  Mohawks, 

For  they  took  a  hearty  lunch, 
And  fortified  the  carnal  man 

With  good  old  whiskey  punch ; 
And  thoughtfully  they  started  out, 

And  took  the  nearest  way, 
By  street  and  block,  to  Griffin's  dock, 

Where  the  good  ship  Dartmouth  lay, 

In  the  quiet  Boston  Bay, 
And  then  with  speed  they  did  the  deed 

We  celebrate  to-day. 

The  business  which  they  had  in  hand, 

'Twas  needful  to  despatch  it, 
And  so  they  had  at  their  command, 

Each  one  a  little  hatchet ; 
They  broke  the  chests  in  thoughtfully, 

And  emptied  out  the  p'ison 
And  gave  the  harbor  such  a  dose 

Of  Souchong  and  of  Hyson, 
That  when  that  tea  had  time  to  steep, 
Our  matters  could  not  go  to  sleep, 
In  fact  that  dose  woke  up  the  deep, 

And  stirred  the  far  horizon. 

Yes,  those  were  thoughtful  Mohawks  ; 

When  their  evening's  work  was  done 
They  hied  them  to  their  forests, 

Toward  the  setting  sun ; 
And  when  the  morrow  morning  dawned, 

In  all  the  city  'round 
The  search  was  vain,  in  street  or  lane 


216  REVOLUTIONARY    TKA. 

Not  a  man  of  them  was  found ; 
For  they  were  not  around, — 
To  their  dark  western  forests 

They  had  sped  them  with  a  bound. 

There  is  an  old  tradition, 

Of  which  we  here  might  speak, 
How  a  faint  farewell  trace  was  left 

Upon  a  lady's  cheek  : 
One  of  those  thoughtful  Mohawks, 

Ere  he  was  lost  to  view, 
Returned  to  give  a  parting  kiss 

To  a  lady  whom  he  knew, 

And  he  left  the  red  man's  hue 

Adhering  there  like  glue ; 
Then  to  his  native  forests 

He  thoughtfully  withdrew. 

Meanwhile  the  Old  South  Meeting- House 

Was  calling  in  the  people, 
The  country  folks  had  heard  the  news, 

Rung  from  the  ancient  steeple ; 
And  through  the  streets  and  up  the  aisles 

The  surging  crowds  were  swaying, 
To  find  the  patriot  orators, 

And  hear  what  they  were  saying, 

And  how  nicely  they  were  playing, 
The  harp  of  thousand  strings,  the  while, 

Their  every  touch  obeying. 

But  why  is  all  this  noise  and  shout, 

This  uproar  and  confusion? 
Are  these  wild  people  led  about, 


REVOLUTIONARY    TEA.  217 

Under  some  strange  delusion? 
They  will  not  pay  John  Bull  his  tax, 

And  go  unrepresented ; 
They  will  no  longer  bend  their  backs, 

If  it  can  be  prevented ; 

They  cannot  live  contented, 
To  moil  and  toil  like  servile  hacks 

They  never  have  consented. 

"  I'll  tax  their  tea,"  King  George  says  he, 

"  Because  I  know  what's  human, 
And  think  I  ought  to  understand 

The  weaknesses  of  woman ; 
She  loves  so  much  that  precious  herb 

She  can  never  let  it  be, 
She  won't  give  up  the  darling  drink 

Which  I  send  across  the  sea ; 

So  we'll  lay  the  tax  on  tea, 

And  lay  it  rather  free ; 
The  woman  ever  rules  the  man, 

So  trust  yourself  to  me." 

The  Yankee  wives  and  maids  replied, 

"  If  that  be  your  reliance, 
We'll  break  our  tea-pots,  every  one, 

And  bid  our  king  defiance. 
We  join  our  brothers  in  the  strife, 

And  take  the  lot  that  falls  ; 
We  are  not  like  those  simpering  dames, 

That  dress  your  palace  walls, 

And  tread  your  courtly  halls  ; 
We  were  not  made  to  come  and  go, 

Because  a  tyrant  calls. 


218  REVOLUTIONARY    TEA. 

"This  very  day,  we  pack  away 

Our  nice  old  china  dishes, 
And  let  our  choice  Young  Hyson  go 

To  feed  the  hungry  fishes ; 
We  join  the  league,  and  share  the  cost, 

Whate'er  the  future  be  : 
Come  weal  or  woe,  come  death  or  life, 

Our  souls  at  least  are  free, 

And  we  will  not  bend  the  knee, 
Your  idol  for  our  worship 

"We  cast  it  to  the  sea." 

And  when  the  daring  deed  was  done, 

With  lightning  speed  it  flew, — 
They  meant,  that  day,  by  "  lightning  speed,' 

The  best  a  horse  could  do  ; 
The  news,  it  journeyed  north  and  south, 

It  travelled  east  and  west, 
It  wandered  like  the  wandering  Jew 

And  found  no  place  of  rest, 

But  on  and  on  it  pressed, 
Till  it  roused  the  thirteen  colonies 

From  sea  to  mountain  crest. 

So  on  that  day,  in  Boston  bay, 

A  stirring  deed  was  done, 
Whose  fame  shall  still  go  sounding  on, 

Down  to  the  latest  sun ; 
It  was  a  nation's  voice  that  spoke, 

Across  that  winter  sea, 
To  tell  the  tyrant  on  his  throne 

To  take  back  his  decree 


THE    OLD    CHESTNUT    TREE.  219 

And  let  the  people  be ; 
And  so  those  sturdy  freemen  wrought. 
That  day,  for  you  and  me. 


THE  OLD  CHESTNUT  TREE. 

AT  the  earliest  ray  of  an  autumn  day, 

In  the  years  of  long  ago, 
In  a  rocky  land  where  the  rough  hills  stand 

And  the  noisy  rivulets  flow ; 
"Willie  and  Dan,  and  their  wee  sister  Ann, 

Were  out  of  the  snug  warm  nest, 
And  off  in  their  glee,  to  the  old  chestnut  tree, 

That  stood  on  a  hill  to  the  west. 

Their  feet  were  all  bare  to  the  biting  air, 

But  they  counted  for  little  the  cost ; 
And  the  fields  were  white  in  the  dawning  light, 

With  the  thick  October  frost ; 
They  stopt  on  their  way,  where  the  great  stones  lay, 

With  shouting,  and  frolic,  and  fun, 
For  the  rocks  gave  heat  to  their  little  red  feet, 

From  the  warmth  of  yesterday's  sun. 

The  old  chestnut  tree  was  a  joy  to  see, 

With  its  gnarled  and  rugged  form ; 
It  stood  in  its  pride,  with  its  branches  thrown  wide, 

And  had  battled,  with  many  a  storm : 


220  THE    OLD    CHESTNUT    TREE. 

Generations  of  yore  had  gathered  its  store, 

In  the  autumns  long  gone  by, 
And  the  young  and  brave  will  sleep  in  their  grave, 

Ere  the  stout  old  tree  shall  die. 

With  basket  and  cup,  ere  the  squirrels  were  up, 

Or  the  sun  had  peeped  over  the  hill, 
They  reached  the  old  tree — and  down  on  the  knee 

Were  working  away  with  a  will: 
'Twas  a  morning  of  luck,  for  the  sharp  frost  had  struck, 

And  opened  the  fruit  to  the  light ; 
And  at  every  stir,  the  nuts  from  the  burr 

Had  quietly  dropt,  through  the  night. 

They  forgot  their  cold  feet,  and  the  frosty  sleet, 

In  the  joy  of  their  plentiful  store : 
For  baskets  were  stuffed,  and  pockets  were  puffed, 

And  Ann's  cup  would' nt  hold  any  more ; 
But  Willie  and  Dan  soon  hit  on  a  plan, 

And  filled  their  old  hats  to  the  full : 
It  needed  some  care,  for  they  leaked  here  and  there, 

Where  time  had  eaten  the  wool. 

So  they  gathered  their  load,  and  made  for  the  road, 

Little  Ann  running  hard  to  keep  up  ; 
Her-  cheek  like  the  rose,  when  in  summer  it  glows, 

And  she  carried  her  own  little  cup : 
But  their  breakfast  was  sweet,  as  they  toasted  their 
feet, 

And  ate  of  the  doughnuts  their  fill, 
And  talked  of  the  luck,  w?hich  they  had  for  their  pluck 

At  the  old  chestnut  tree  on  the  hill. 


DEDICATION   OF    A   CITY   HALL.  221 

0  give  me  the  joy  of  the  free  country  boy, 

Who  minds  not  for  frost  or  for  snow ; 
Who  climbs  the  rough  hills,  and  tracks  the  wild  rills  t 

And  whose  blood  is  kept  warm  by  its  flow : 
With  eyes  shining  bright,  heart  cheerful  and  light, 

He  brushes  all  hardships  away, 
He  is  up  with  the  sun,  and  when  labor  is  done 

He  is  fresh  from  his  work  for  his  play. 


DEDICATION  OF  A  CITY  HALL. 

To  orators,  both  great  and  small, 
Of  many  words,  or  few, 
This  ample,  well- developed  Hall, 
From  floor  to  ceiling,  wall  to  wall, 
We  dedicate  to  you. 


We  seem  to  hear  the  high  debate, 

Go  sounding  down  the  years, 

For  no  American  is  great, 

Who  cannot  rise  and  stand  and  state 
The  thing — as  it  appears. 

To  whispering  lovers,  who  may  come 
Amid  this  warmth  and  lightr 
Because  you  cannot  meet  at  home, 
And  find  the  air  too  cold  to  roanv 
Upon  a  winter's  night; 


222  DEDICATION  OF   A   CITY   HALL. 

We  dedicate  this  Hall  to  you, 

As  rolling  years  go  by, 
Your  opportunities  are  few, 
Come  here  and  have  your  interview 
Beneath  the  public  eye. 

To  active-minded  little  boys, 

That  here  their  pastime  take, 

Who,  eating  peanuts  with  a  noise, 

And  appetite  that  never  cloys, 

Contrive  to  keep  awake ; 

The  tithing-man  is  not  about, 

He  died  before  your  day ; 
Your  brass -tipped  shoes  are  firm  and  stout, 
So  clatter  in  and'clatter  out, — 

This  is  your  place  for  play. 

To  him  who  wears  the  creaky  boots, 
And  comes  to  lectures  late, 
Whose  taste  a  front  seat  only  suits, 
While  speakers  stand  as  still  as  mutes, 
And  for  his  sitting  wait ; 

To  local  politicians,  too, 

Who  love  the  people  well, 
Who  keep  the  general  good  in  view, 
And  tell  the  voters  what  to  do, 

And  how  to  buy  and  sell; 

Here  shape  the  business  of  the  Ward, 
And  help  us  all  you  can, 


BOSTON-OLOGY.  223 

Come  gather  here  with  one  accord, 
For  virtue  is  its  own  reward, 

And  life  is  but  a  span. 

But  while  you  plan,  contrive  and  fix, 
There's  danger  on  your  track, 

The  gun  you  carry  has  its  tricks, 

When  loaded  overmuch  it  kicks, 

And  throws  its  owner  back. 

To  all  of  these  and  many  more, 

To  people  great  and  small, 
Here  stands  for  you  an  open  door, 
And  for  your  sakes  we  look  before, 

And  dedicate  this  Hall. 


BOSTON-OLOGY. 

PERHAPS  I  owe  my  hearers  an  apology, 
In  turning  now  a  moment  to  theology. 

If  you  would  know  the  wonders  of  divinity, 
You  must  come  down  to  "  Boston  and  vicinity," 
Where  moral  systems  rise  and  disappear, 
Still  fresh  and  new,  a  score  or  two  a  year, 
Launched  on  the  world,  all  bristling  and  complete 
By  what  is  called  "omniscient  self-conceit." 
One  who  lives  here  is  privileged  to  attend 
A  preached  gospel,  where  some  Reverend  friend, 
Still  pressing  on  all  mysteries  to  explore, 


224  BOSTON-OLOGY. 

Makes  some  bold  push  none  ever  made  before ; 

He  goes  so  fast  you  sometimes  think,  indeed, 

That  he  is  riding  a  velocipede. 

Come  on,  then,  stranger,  go  along  with  me, 

Let's  to  the  House  of  God  in  company ; 

With  reverence  let  us  heed  the  Sabbath  call, 

Which  sounds  abroad  from  Horticultural  Hall. 

This  is  the  land,  sir,  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers, 

Home  of  the  Chauncys  and  the  Cotton  Mathers. 

To  Horticultural  Hall,  then,  let  us  go, 

Where  the  fair  flowers  of  sacred  rhetoric  blow. 

Now  who  stands  up  the  gospel  to  proclaim, 

Should  wear,  of  course,  a  Reverend  to  his  name ; 

With  this  heaven-born  appendage,  he  may  teach 

Doctrines  like  those  we  hear  our  preacher  preach  : 

"  All  prayer  is  folly.     Undeveloped  souls, 

"  That  linger  yet  upon  the  muddy  shoals 

"  Of  earthly  being,  these  in  prayer  may  find 

"  Some  feeble  comfort,  but  the  higher  mind, 

*•  The  philosophic  man,  has  no  such  need, 

"  Sufficient  ever  to  himself.     Indeed 

"  If  he  desired  to  pray,  it  is  not  clear 

"  That  there  is  any  one  his  prayers  to  hear. 

"  We  dare  to  ask  if  that  huge  personality, 

k'  Which  men  call  God,  be  shadow  or  reality." 

Now  tell  me,  stranger,  ere  you  take  your  hat, 

Say,  did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  that? 

Perhaps  you  don't  remember  where  you  be, 

For  this  is  Sunday,  and  the  man  you  see, 

Who's  been  a  talking,  is  the  minister; 

Nay,  spare  that  doubting  look  so  sharp  and  sinister, 


BOSTON-OLOGY.  225 

For  aught  I  know  a  Doctor  of  Divinity, 
With  his  old  Puritanic  consanguinity. 
Where,  stranger,  will  you  find,  go  far  or  near, 
Such  Christian  privilege  as  we  have  down  here? 
Of  course  you'll  come  next  Sabbath  and  the  next, — 
Some  will  preach  with,  and  some  without  a  text. 
To  make  the  whole  seem  gentle,  kind  and  human, 
At  times  the  preaching  will  be  done  by  woman-; 
Firmly  by  the  old  Scripture  rule  we  bide, 
For  Deborah  sang  and  Miriam  prophesied : 
And  when  a  stricter  doctrine  we  demand, 
Some  pious  layman  near  will  lend  a  hand. 

Next  Sabbath  comes.     Promptly  we  take  our  seat, 
To  lose  no  crumb  of  this  rich  gospel  treat. 
Another  Reverend  brother  tries  to  show, 
What  he  from  his  vocation  ought  to  know : 
That  the  old  Christian  Faith  leads  men  astray, 
That  "Free  Religion"  is  the  better  way. 
And  if  you  ask  what  Free  Religion  is, 
'Tis  of  a  kind,  my  friend,  you  cannot  miss, 
You  have  it  always,  whether  saint  or  sinner, 
Whether  you  kill  your  wife,  or  eat  your  dinner; 
In  fact  the  mixture  can't  be  spread  much  thinner. 
You  look  surprised.    You  don't  believe,  my  friend, 
That  this  man  also  is  a  Reverend? 
Why  certainly  he  is,  'tis  "  Sabba-day," 
This  is  a  Christian  minister,  on  pay, 
Hired  by  the  people  here  to  preach  and  pray. 

Perchance  to  try  once  more,  you  feel  inclined, 
And  see  what  farther  wonders  we  can  find : 
15 


226  BOSTON-OLOGY. 

Our  preaching  here  affords  a  wide  variety, 
And  some  uncommon  types  of  modern  piety. 
We  heard  one  minister  and  then  another, 
To-day  we  have  again  a  Reverend  brother : 
He  rises  now — keep  still  and  hear  him  state 
The  Christian  theme  he  essays  to  debate. 
"  The  piety  of  Pantheism,  as  displayed 
Among  the  Hindus  of  the  higher  grade." 

Again  the  stranger  says — you  cannot  mean 
That  this  is  Christian  worship  where  we've  been? 
Not  Christian  worship !     Pray  what  is  it,  then  ? 
Isn't  this  the  Sabbath-day?  I  ask  again ; 
Isn't  that  a  minister,  made  such  by  rule, 
A  finished  product  of  our  neighboring  school? 
It  only  proves  what  I  set  out  to  state, 
Our  Christian  privilege  down  here  is  great, 
We  have  the  gospel  in  as  many  dishes 
As  ought  to  satisfy  a  Frenchman's  wishes. 

If  then  you  have  a  theologic  doubt, 

Some  knotty  point  you  cannot  well  make  out, 

Bring  it  to  Boston,  in  the  winter  season, 

And  get  the  marvellous  light  of  modern  reason 

Concentrated  on  the  case.     'Tis  certain,  very, 

The  effect  will  be  quite  extraordinary. 


YALE   COLLEGE.  227 


YALE  COLLEGE. 


Closing  Stanzas  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Poem,  at  New  Haven. 
1871. 


So  leave  we  now  this  trifling. 

And  touch  a  soberer  strain ; 
For  on  these  fair  and  charmed  grounds, 

Old  thoughts  come  back  again ; 
The  crowding  memories  gather 

From  long  departed  years, 
They  touch  the  heart  with  tenderness, 

They  fill  the  eyes  with  tears. 

The  dead  are  thronging  round  us, 

Old  comrades  true  and  tried, 
With  whom  in  joyous  converse 

We  climbed  the  mountain  side ; 
With  whom  in  nights  of  beauty 

We  trod  the  moonlit  shore, 
And  saw  in  starry  visions- 

The  years  rise  up  before.. 

The  dead  are  gathering  round  us ; 

Our  teachers,  good  and  wise, 
Who  opened  wisdom's  wondrous  page 

Before  our  youthful  eyes; 


228  YALE    COLLEGE. 

They  taught  us  earthly  knowledge, 
Taught  us  the  fear  of  God, 

And  kept  the  two  great  worlds  in  view, 
In  all  the  path  we  trod. 

OLD  YALE,  our  dear  old  mother ! 

We  love  to  breathe  her  name ; 
We  love  to  tell  her  noble  deeds, 

And  sound  abroad  her  fame ; 
We  love  her  simple  story, 

Her  modest  country  ways, 
In  those  old  times  when  she  began 

Her  progeny  to  raise. 

We  trace  her  early  fortunes, 

Her  years  of  sore  distress, 
While  yet  the  little  Commonwealth 

Was  a  rough  wilderness  ; 
While  yet  the  howling  savage 

Lurked  in  his  forest  den, 
And  all  the  towns  could  not  enroll 

Four  thousand  arm6d  men. 

Our  nine — the  worthy  Presidents ! 

We  trace  their  royal  line, 
Differing  a  little  in  their  tastes 

From  the  old  Grecian  nine ; 
With  pride  we  name  them,  and  defy 

The  land  to  bring  their  peers ; 
Our  nine — whose  office- life  fills  out 

The  hundred  seventy  years. 


YALE    COLLEGE. 

There's  Pierson,  Cutler,  Williams, 

And  Clap  of  learned  fame ; 
Daggett,  who  felt  within  his  breast 

The  patriotic  flame ; 
And  when  the  British  came  to  town, 

He  left  his  gown  and  book, 
And  with  true  Yankee  grit  went  out 

To  tight  on  his  own  hook. 

There's  Stiles,  with  all  his  learned  lore ; 

And  the  immortal  D  wight, 
Who  kept  the  little  State  aglow 

With  his  own  radiant  light ; 
Many  still  live  among  us 

Who  sat  beneath  his  feet, 
And  love  Avith  filial  reverence 

His  praises  to  repeat. 

And  with  what  love  we  speak  the  name 

Of  Jeremiah  Day, 
Who  led  our  steps  so  gently 

Along  this  flowery  way ; 
What  mingled  truth  and  justice 

Looked  from  his  saintly  eyes  ! 
How  calm  and  yet  how  genial, 

How  prudent  and  how  wise ! 

And  here  to-day  the  college  parts 
With  one  whose  name  shall  live, 

Circled  with  all  the  praises 
Our  grateful  hearts  can  give : 


230  PRIDE    OF   ANCESTRY. 

Woolsey — so  rich  in  learning, 
So  firm  and  yet  so  mild, 

Bearing  his  honors  gracefully 
And  meekly  as  a  child. 

Whom  the  Lord  loves  he  chastens, 

But  let  our  prayers  arise 
That  late  the  loving  Father 

Will  take  him  to  the  skies  ; 
Long  may  he  dwell  among  us, 

Honored,  beloved,  revered, 
Watching  the  college  household 

His  faithful  care  has  reared. 


PRIDE  OF  ANCESTRY. 

BEHOLD  the  nations,  far  and  wide,  and  see 
How  strange  has  been  man's  pride  of  ancestry. 
The  merest  driblet  of  some  kingly  line, 
Some  royal  house,  with  its  old  rights  divine ; 
The  weakest  offshoot  of  a  haughty  race, 
Ugly  in  mind,  and  uglier  still  in  face, 
Yet  looking  from  his  proud  imperial  height, 
Glances  with  scorn  on  men  of  real  might. 
'Tis  condescension,  if  he  stoops  to  know 
The  grandest  works  untitled  men  can  show ! 
'Tis  royal  grace,  if  he  consents  to  shed 
A  little  lustre  on  some  Newton's  head ! 


PRIDE   OF    ANCESTRY. 

From  age  to  age,  all  England  is  astir 

To  prove  some  kinship  with  the  Conqueror. 

How  many  a  scion  of  some  ancient  line, 

Amid  his  horses,  dogs,  his  cards  and  wine, 

Keeps  rattling  on  about  his  pedigree, 

Dukes,  earls  and  lords,  of  high  and  low  degree! 

As  if  he  wished  to  have  it  understood 

That,  like  his  hounds,  he  runs  by  scent  of  blood. 

Oddly  enough,  in  these  our  modern  days, 
This  pride  has  taken  on  a  curious  phase, 
And  men,  in  shaping  their  ancestral  tree, 
Have  thrown  away  the  books  of  heraldry. 
The  ancient  treatises  have  lost  their  charms ; 
What  trifles  now  are  glittering  coats  of  arms ! 
And  they  who  talk  of  argent  and  of  gules, 
What  are  they  more  than  antiquated  fools  ? 
Ten  thousand  hands  the  caves  of  earth  explore ', 
Ten  thousand  eyes  o'er  fossil  records  pore ; 
All  bent  to  prove  that  man  is  not  a  flunkey 
Because  his  old-time  father  was  a  monkey! 

Shade  of  John  Milton !  was  that  godlike  man, 
Painted  by  thee,  on  such  a  lordly  plan. 
Who  walked  in  Eden,  when  the  angel  throng 
Poured  o'er  the  new-made  earth  their  morning  song ; 
And  that  more  beauteous  form  of  softer  grace, 
With  all  the  woman  shining  in  her  face.; 
Must  we  submit,  without  one  lingering  pang, 
And  call  them  children  of  orang-outang? 

The  Good  Old  Book  tells  quite  another  story : 
It  throws  o'er  Man  a  high  and  kingly  glory ; 


232  SOCRATES   AND    THE   HEMLOCK. 

It  gives  him  leave,  as  kindred  of  the  sky, 

To  triumph  in  his  immortality. 

To  that  Old  Book  we  bow,  as  endless  debtor, 

And  like  its  antique  notions  vastly  better 

Than  these  new  systems,  which  would  make  us  brutes, 

Worked  up,  by  slow  degrees,  from  tad- pole  roots. 

Yet  still,  if  Science  bids,  of  course,  we  must 

Bow  down  and  wallow  in  our  native  dust ! 


SOCRATES  AND  THE  HEMLOCK. 


IN  far  off  years,  ere  Christ  the  Lord  was  born, 

The  rolling  sun,  in  all  his  circuit  wide, 
From  morn  to  eve — from  eve  to  breaking  morn, 

Saw  nought  so  fair  as  Athens  in  her  pride : 
Her  spacious  streets  in  sculptured  riches  drest, 

Where  busy  thousands  walked  with  spirits  glad, 
She  sat  aloft,  enthroned  in  queenly  rest, 

Her  rugged  hills  in  templed  beauty  clad ; 
Of  ancient  empires  this  the  noblest  birth, 

The  praise  and  wonder  of  the  peopled  earth. 

II. 

Wide  open  stood  her  doors, 

To  greet  the  youth  who  came  with  hearts  aflame, 
Drawn  by  the  spell  of  Plato's  mighty  name, 

From  near  and  distant  shores  : 


SOCRATES  AND  THE  HEMLOCK.      233 

In  the  famed  Academe, 
Beside  Illissus'  winding  stream, 
Where  olive  groves  their  sheltering  branches  spread, 
These  thronging  listeners  wait, 
To  hear  the  high  debate, 
And  place  their  garlands  on  the  Master's  head : 

With  burning  zeal  they  sought 
To  range  with  him  these  lofty  realms  of  thought, 
And  as  on  eagle  wings  to  soar 
Where  mortal  teacher  never  led  before. 

in. 

Nor  this  alone :  for  into  Athens  throng 
The  men  of  wit,  of  eloquence  and  song, 
Masters  of  taste  and  skill,  beneath  whose  hand 
Rose  the  fair  temples,  famed  in  every  land, 
Treasures  of  art,  a  rich  and  boundless  store, 
Scrolls  without  number  wrought  in  curious  lore. 

One  need  no  farther  go 
To  find  the  choicest  riches  earth  could  show. 

IV. 

One  man  there  was  in  these  Athenian  walls, 
Whose  words  of  daily  wisdom,  sounding  clear, 

Were  uttered  not  in  Academic  halls, 
But  where  the  ever  passing  crowds  might  hear : 
So  pure  and  simple  was  his  life, 
So  free  from  lust  of  power  and  gain, 
So  far  above  all  sordid  strife, 

That  like  some  saintly  monarch  did  he  reign. 

Such  potent  magic  lingered  in  his  word, 

That  truth  stood  out  in  strong  and  living  light, 


234  SOCRATES   AND   THE   HEMLOCK. 

Men  found  their  inmost  spirits  strangely  stirred, 
While  virtue  shone  in  colors  warm  and  bright ; 
But  vice,  abashed  and  humbled,  crept  away, 
And  hid  its  presence  from  the  face  of  day. 
So  Socrates,  from  youth  to  ripened  age, 
Labored  and  wrought,  as  teacher,  saint  and  sage ; 
Before  this  man,  even  Plato  bowed  in  awe, 
As  some  divine  embodiment  of  law. 

V. 

Athens  must  need  be  proud, 
So  grand  a  name  upon  her  rolls  to  write ; 
Yet  then,  as  now,  the  false  and  fickle  crowd 
Loved  darkness  more  than  light ; 

And  so  that  morning  came, 

When  the  bright  sun  looked  down  on  Athens'  shame 
Her  men  of  violence  and  crime, 

Of  dark  deceit  and  vain  pretence, 
Could  not  endure  this  life  sublime, 

They  quailed  before  its  innocence. 
When  Socrates,  the  great  and  good,  went  by, 
They  fled  before  his  mild  reproving  eye. 

VI. 

Lo  now !  accusers  must  be  found, 
To  urge  on  him  some  crime  of  awful  sound ; 
How  can  they  set  him  then  at  heavier  odds 
Than  by  the  charge  of  slights  against  the  gods  ? 
Behold !  your  saint,  so  holy,  just  and  true, 
Has  brought  in  gods  your  fathers  never  knew ; 
For  such  unheard,  untold  impiety, 
'Tis  very  plain  that  Socrates  should  die ! 


SOCRATES   ANP   THE   HEMLOCK-  235 

VII. 

See  now  the  great  Athenian  Council  met 

In  pomp  and  solemn  state, 
The  books  all  opened  and  the  judgment  set 

The  charges  to  await : 

The  accusers  tell  their  old  and  thrice  told  tale, 
And  ply  their  arts  the  prisoner  to  assail, 
And  by  the  major  vote  at  last  prevail. 

So  to  the  dungeon  and  its  gloom 

He  goes  to  wait  his  day  of  doom : 

Not  bowed  in  guilt  and  shame, 
But  bearing  still  his  clear  and  spotless  name. 

vin. 

Plato  has  drawn  for  us  that  closing  scene, 

In  living  lines  so  ever  fresh  and  clear, 
That  over  all  the  centuries  between, 

Each  act  and  word  we  seem  to  see  and  hear ; 
Shut  in  by  gloomy  prison  walls, 

His  chosen  friends  were  gathered  round, 
"While  solemn  silence  on  them  falls, 

And  grief  oppressive  and  profound. 
But  he  in  converse,  full  and  free, 
And  large  discourse  of  immortality, 
Scattered  the  gathering  gloom, 

And  shed  a  cheerful  light  around  the  room. 

IX. 

The  sun  was  sinking  low  adown  the  west, 
When  the  poor  jailer,  weeping  like  the  rest, 
Brought  in,  with  trembling  hand,  the  fatal  draught, 


236  SOCRATES    AND   THE   HEMLOCK. 

Which  he  with  kindly  welcome  took  and  quaffed. 

His  friends,  all  stricken  and  aghast, 
At  what  before  them  had  so  quickly  passed, 

Could  only  find  relief 

In  one  sharp  sudden  burst  of  grief: 
But  he  besought  that  this  wild  cry  might  cease, 
That  so  his  soul  might  pass  away  in  peace. 

For  why  of  death  stand  we  in  fear? 

The  nobler  life  above  is  near, 
And  trouble  waits  us  while  we  linger  here. 

Even  now  I  feel  the  creeping  chill 

O'ermastering  thought  and  sense  and  will, 
And  soon  this  heart  shall  be  forever  still. 
But  when  you  burn  this  lifeless  frame, 
Pray  do  not  call  it  Socrates  by  name ; 
For  Socrates  has  'scaped  your  earthly  flame, 
He  goes  beyond  the  power  of  evil  star, 
To  meet  the  friends  who  wait  him  from  afar. 

At  length  was  spent  his  laboring  breath, 
And  those  around  him  closed  his  eyes  in  death. 
So  Socrates  the  pure  and  godlike  died, 
That  wicked  men  might  once  more  walk  in  prid< 
Type  and  forerunner  of  that  Mightier  One, 
Who,  when  his  perfect  life  on  earth  was  done, 

Was  scorned  and  mocked  and  crucified. 


THE   RIVER   OF    GOD.  237 

"THE  RIVER  OF  GOD." 

»repsly65nriCheSt  U  Withthe  riverof  G°d  which  is  full 

IN  the  late  autumn  days,  when  yellow  leaves 

Dropt  lazily  beneath  the  October  sun, 

And  the  soft  south  wind,  breathing  through  the  trees, 

Told  of  a  world,  subdued  to  sleepy  rest, 

I  chanced  to  journey  through  a  land  of  hills, 

One  of  New  England's  wild  romantic  nooks, 

Where  changing  landscapes  breaking  on  the  sight, 

Were  coiled  and  curved  in  lines  of  magic  grace, 

Or  rough  with  chasms  and  sharp  besplintered  heights. 

Fresh  wonders  opened  to  the  waiting  eye 

At  every  turn.     Amid  these  nestling  hills, 

A  race  industrious,  simple  and  sincere, 

Had  built  their  homes  and  plied  their  busy  arts, 

Turning  to  largest  use  a  rocky  realm 

Not  meant  for  tillage.    Here,  from  morn  to  night, 

These  dwellers  watched  the  fortunes  of  their  mills, 

The  play  of  wheels,  the  ever  buzzing  looms, 

The  girding  belts  and  ponderous  rolling  shafts, 

The  busy  hammers  nimbly  shaping  out 

A  thousand  implements  of  daily  need. 

This  was  the  life  that  filled  those  vales  and  hills, 

Changing  the  lonely  barren  solitudes 

Into  a  hive  of  boundless  industry. 


238  THE    RIVER    OF    GOD. 

Thickly  the  clans  were  scattered  through  the  dells 

Along  these  water  courses.     One  by  one, 

The  little  villages  peeped  out  to  view, 

Each  with  its  white  spire  pointing  to  the  heavens, 

Its  humble  school- house  at  the  central  green 

Kept  busy  with  the  tread  of  little  feet. 

But  now,  in  these  soft  autumn  days  of  calm, 

A  bfight  was  on  these  hills.     The  springs  were  dry. 

The  little  lakes,  God's  ancient  reservoirs, 

Thick- set  amid  these  mountains,  which,  when  full, 

Lent  to  the  landscape  an  undying  charm, 

Were  gaunt  and  hideous  in  their  empty  waste. 

The  ragged  rocks  and  half  decaying  trunks 

Lay  bedded  in  the  loathsome  ooze  and  mire. 

The  rocky  pastures,  on  the  open  slopes, 

Were  brown  with  drought.   The  flocks  and  lowing  herds 

Wandered  in  vain  to  find  their  wonted  springs 

And  hillside  fountains.     Piteously  they  sought 

The  help  of  man  to  quench  their  aching  thirst. 

The  rocky  channels,  once  so  musical 

With  voice  of  many  waters,  now  were  still. 

A  funeral  silence  rested  o'er  the  hills. 

The  busy  workers  paced  with  mournful  steps 

Around  those  silent  wheels  which  toiled  not 

Neither  did  they  spin.     Anxiously  all  eyes 

Turned  upward,  watching  for  the  autumn  rains. 

The  weeks  passed  on.     December  days  had  come, 
But  with  the  lingerings  of  October  warmth. 
Again  I  journeyed  through  these  ancient  hills : 
Meanwhile  God's  River,  flowing  deep  and  full, 


THE    RIVER   OF    GOD.  239 

Had  poured  itself  o'er  all  this  mountain  land. 
Those  ghastly  chasms  which  late  the  eye  abhorred 
Were  clothed  again  in  beauty,     Full  to  the  brim, 
They  hastened  down  in  generous  overflow, 
Bearing  their  wealth  of  waters  to  the  vales. 
Each  hidden  spring  lurking  in  cozy  nook 
And  arching  shade,  around  -these  mountain  heights, 
Sent  out  its  little  rivulet,  clear  and  bright, 
Sparkling  and  dancing  down  its  pebbly  way. 
The  silent  wheels  were  moved  and  wrought  again 
In  all  the  stir  of  multitudinous  life. 

Thou  visitest  the  earth  and  waterest  it ; 

Greatly  dost  Thou  enrich  it  from  Thy  fount, 

The  river  of  God  forever  flowing  full. 

Though  but  a  cloud  on  the  horizon's  verge 

Casts  its  small  shadow,— though  but  a  speck  appear, 

Flecking  the  brazen  heavens,  yet  at  Thy  word 

The  skies  are  loosed,  God's  fountains  are  unlocked, 

And  over  all  the  hills  and  through  the  dells 

Goes  out  the  sound  of  the  descending  floods. 

Until  God  gives  the  word  man  stands  forlorn 

In  utter  helplessness.     No  wisdom  of  the  wise, 

No  cunning  art,  can  strike  the  rock  and  make 

The  current  flow.     Thou  waterest  the  hills 

From  out  thy  chambers,  and  the  earth  is  full. 


240  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 


MY  MOTHER'S   GRAVE. 

THE  sun  has  vanished  down  the  west, 
But  fleecy  clouds  in  splendor  drest 
Hung  round  his  glorious  place  of  rest ; 

An  emblem  bright 
Of  saints,  whose  dying  hours  are  blest 

With  heaven's  own  light. 

In  this  sweet  calm  I  walked  alone, 

Mid  graves,  with  clustering  grass  o'ergrown, 

For  time  had  touched,  with  rustic  tone, 

This  still  retreat ; 
Till,  by  a  rude  and  simple  stone, 

I  took  my  seat. 

Whate'er  a  stranger's  eye  might  see, 
This  was  a  hallowed  spot  to  me ; 
Here  she  who  watched  my  infancy, 

Long  years  had  slept, 
Since  round  this  grave,  with  trembling  knee, 

Sad  mourners  wept. 

Scarce  had  my  earthly  years  begun, 
When  her  full  earthly  course  was  run : 
At  early  noon  went  down  her  sun 

To  darksome  night ; 
And  so  she  passed,  her  victory  won, 

To  realms  of  light. 


MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE.  241 

But  ere  the  vale  of  death  she  trod, 
She  gave  her  little  ones  to  God, 
And  leaning  on  the  Shepherd's  rod, 

Her  staff  and  stay, 
Her  feet  with  pilgrim  sandals  shod, 

She  took  her  way- 

In  days  long  gone  we  used  to  stand 
Around  this  grave — an  orphan  band — 
Gazing  in  silence,  hand  in  hand, 

With  tearful  eye ; 
Planting  our  flowerets  on  the  sand, 

To  fade  and  die. 

The  elder  born,  a  sister  sweet, 
Would  often  lead  our  younger  feet, 
Around  this  simple  grave  to  meet — 

I  mind  it  well ; 
And  here  our  mother's  words  repeat, 

Her  counsels  tell. 

With  touches  of  maternal  art 
She  tried  to  act  the  mother's  part, 
And  fold  us  to  her  swelling  heart 
x    With  tender  tone — 
To  wipe  our  tear-drops  as  they  start, 
And  leave  her  own. 

She  sought  to  form  us,  day  by  day, 
To  walk  in  virtue's  honest  way; 
For  a  wide  world  before  us  lay, 

With  thousand  snares ; 
And  we  must  soon  be  called  away, 

To  know  its  cares. 
16 


242  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

The  parting  came.  Twas  joyous  spring, 
When  fields  and  woods  were  freshening ; 
The  glad  birds  darted  on  the  wing, 

To  hail  the  May ; 
And  happy  robins  seemed  to  sing^. 

Our  parting  lay. 

While  musing  o'er  this  sacred  place,. 
I  prayed  that  memory  might  retrace 
Some  gentle  look,  or  kind  embrace, 

Some  soothing  smile, 
That  played  upon  that  mother's  face 

With  winning  wile. 

But  time  had  worn  the  tablet  bare, 
Nor  left  one  faint  impression  there  : 
I  turned,  in  sadness  and  despair, 

My  thoughts  above ; 
And  imaged  forth  a  seraph  fair, 

In  worlds  of  love. 

So  bright  this  heavenly  image  stands,- 
Amid  the  pure  and  saintly  bands, 
With  palms  of  victory  in  her  hands  ; 

I  wept  no  more ; 
But  panted  for  those  peaceful  lands, 

That  sinless  shore. 

And  is  it  true,  that  spirits  fair 

Can  wander  through  the  realms  of  air, 

And  know  the  burdens  mortals  bear? 

The  paths  they  run  ? 
And  hast  thou  watched,  with  mother's  care, 

Thy  wandering  son  ? 


THOU    BETHLEHEM.  243 

Thoughtful  we  tread  the  solemn  aisles 
Where  sleep  the  great,  mid  glory's  smiles  ; 
We  seek  the  monumental  piles, 

Where  rest  the  brave : 
But  nought  like  this  my  heart  beguiles, 

This  simple  grave. 


;'THOU  BETHLEHEM. 


"  But  thou,  Bethlehem  Kphratah,  though  thou  be  little 
among  the  thousands  of  Judah,  yet  out  of  thee  shall  He  come 
forth  unto  me  that  is  to  be  ruler  in  Israel ;  whose  goings  forth 
have  been  from  of  old,  from  everlasting."  MICAH  v  :  2. 


Tuou  Bethlehem,  nestled  in  the  craggy  rocks ! 

The  stars  are  shining  on  thy  pastures  cold, 
As  in  that  night  when  shepherds  watched  their  flocks, 

In  the  dim  years  of  old. 

Though  thou  wast  little  in  the  ancient  land, 
In  Judah's  teeming  thousands,  poor,  unknown, 

Yet  men  were  born  in  thee  for  high  command, 
Heirs  to  a  lofty  throne. 

From  thy  rude  hills  came  forth  the  shepherd  king 

The  princely  David  and  his  royal  line, 
A.nd  mightier  far,  whom  men  and  angels  sing, 

Messiah,  Prince  Divine. 


244  THE    OPEN   FIRE. 

His  stately  goings  forth  have  been  of  old, 

From  everlasting  was  his  mystic  birth, 
And  in  the  ages  yet  to  be  unrolled, 

His  name  shall  fill  the  earth. 

Thine  empire,  0  Immanuel,  stretches  far, 

The  wrath  of  men  checks  not  thy  kingly  sway, 

Through  storm  and  strife,  through  wild  tumultuous  war, 
Leads  on  thy  conquering  way. 

Men  tread  their 'little  round  beneath  the  sky, 

And  shoot  at  Thee  their  words  of  hate  and  scorn  ; 

Things  of  a  day— how  soon  their  years  go  by, 
And  other  years  are  born ! 

That  humble  babe,  from  Bethlehem's  lowly  bed, 
Whom  wise  men  sought  beneath  the  starry  night, 

Shall  yet  be  owned  on  earth,  the  Sovereign  Head, 
And  sit  enthroned  in  light ! 


THE  OPEN  FIRE. 

LET  others  sing  of  sunny  climes, 

Where  creep  the  lazy  hours  ; 
•Of  landscapes  rich  with  teeming  stores 

•Of  tropic  fruit  and  flowers  : 
But  give  to  me  the  sterner  North, 

Where  blustering  breezes  blow ; 
Where  fields  of  summer  glory  change 

To  realms  of  ice  and  snow. 


THE    OPEN   FIRE.  245 

The  lands  that  feel  no  wintry  blasts 

Know  not  the  keen  delights 
Which  cluster  round  the  blazing  fires 

Of  the  long  northern  nights ; 
Where  happy  households  in  the  dells, 

In  sheltered  nests  and  warm, 
Around  their  glowing  hearthstones  hear 

The  echoes  of  the  storm. 


When  snow- clouds  drift,  in  angry  whirls, 

Along  the  eastern  gales, 
And  round  the  house  the  mad  wind  swells 

And  dies  in  mournful  wails, 
What  joy  to  watch  the  leaping  flames, 

In  all  their  frolic  dance, 
While  listlessly  we  sit  and  gaze 

As  in  some  dreamy  trance! 

Oh,  who  shall  tell  what  mystic  power 

Is  playing  round  the  soul, 
When  tides  of  music  o'er  us  sweep, 

And  lofty  anthems  roll  ? 
And  who  shall  tell  what  subtle  charm 

In  dancing  flames  can  dwell, 
To  hold  us  captive  while  we  gaze, 

And  bind  us  with  its  spell? 

Anon,  the  cheerful  warmth  and  light 

A  social  glow  impart, 
When  busy  mind  enkindles  mind,, 

And  heart  responds  to  heart: 


246  THE    OPEN    FIRE. 

In  happy  converse,  long  and  sweet, 

The  winged  hours  go  by, 
And  still  we  watch  the  restless  blaze 

With  half- unconscious  eye. 

Or  when,  at  the  deep  midnight  hour, 

We  sit  alone  and  dream, 
While  the  low  dying  embers  stir 

In  faint  and  fitful  gleam : 
The  holy  memories  of  the  soul 

Come  flocking  from  the  past ; 
They  glide  along,  on  noiseless  wing, 

With  every  moving  blast. 

That  land,  which  Burns  has  lighted  up 

With  wit  and  mirth  and  song, 
Until  her  bright  and  happy  homes 

To  the  whole  earth  belong ; 
Her  hills  and  mountains  might  have  stood, 

In  all  their  stubborn  pride — 
But  what  to  us  would  Scotia  be 

Without  her  "  ingleside  "  ? 

Her  «« wee  bit  ingle,"  snug  and  warm, 

And  "  blinkin'  bonnily," 
Around  whose  cosey  fires  were  nursed 

Heroic  souls  and  free ; 
Men,  who  could  face  a  tyrant's  frown ; 

Who,  though  of  humble  birth, 
Have  made  old  Scotland's  name  a  light 

For  freedom  on  the  earth. 


THE    BANISHMENT    OF    CUPID.  247 

And  on  these  dear  New  England  hills, 

Through  all  our  toiling  years ; 
Alike  when  prosperous  days  were  given, 

Or  dark  foreboding  fears  ; 
The  forests  fed  the  winter  fires, 

And  kept  them  strong  and  briglit, 
While  children  grew  to  strength  and  grace 

JJeneath  their  ruddy  light. 


THE  BANISHMENT  OF  CUPID. 

OOD  of  the  golden  quiver! 

Too  long  has  been  thy  stay,; 
I  banish  thee  forever, 

I  banish  thee,  to-day. 

Thou  earnest  by  so  meekly, 

So  innocent  in  mien, 
With  step  so  lame  and  weakly, 

That  I  kindly  took  thee  in. 

I  could  not  dream  of  danger, 
In  such  a  face  as  thine ; 

And  I  wist  not  that  the  stranger 
I  harbored,  was  divine. 

I  thought  that,  on  the  morrow, 
You  would  go  along  your  way ; 

But  I  saw  your  look  of  sorrow, 
And  kindly  bade  you  stay, 


248  A   GAME   OF   COURTESY. 

But  when  you  once  had  entered 
My  mansion  as  a  guest, 

Twas  rare — the  way  you  ventured 
To  rob  me  of  my  rest. 

I  took  thee  in  for  shelter, 
So  friendless  and  alone  f 

And  you  turned  things  helter-skelter, 
And  made  my  house  your  own. 

So  take  your  bow  and  quiver, 
And  make  no  more  delay ; 

And  never — mind  now,  never, 
Show  your  face  again  this  way. 


A  GAME  OF  COUKTESY. 

A  BASHFUL  lover  tried  to  woo 
A  maiden,  fair  and  slender, 

She  trifled  at  the  interview, 

And  scorned  his  accents  tender. 

Said  he,  aside — "  I  will  invent 

A  little  necromancy, 
And  launch  at  her  a  compliment. 

To  try  and  catch  her  fancy." 

Quoth  she,  with  careless  unconcern, 
"Your  words  they  may  be  true,  Sir, 

I  wish  that  I  could  make  return 
And  say  the  same  of  you,  Sir." 


OUR    BOSTON    YANKEE    DOODLE.  249 

"  O  you  can  do  that  very  well, 

And  do  it  now — provided 
That  you  make  up  your  mind  to  tell 

As  big  a  lie  as  I  did." 


OUR  BOSTON  YANKEE  DOODLE. 

CLAD  in  my  linsey-woolsey  frock, 

With  boots  flung  o'er  my  shoulder, 
I  wander  up,  I  wander  down, 
On  hot  days  and  on  colder ; 
I  whistle,  whistle  as  I  go, 

It  comes  so  nice  and  handy, 
.    And  all  the  tune  I  care  to  know, 
Is  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy. 
Yankee  Doodle  is  the  song, 

The  only  tune  worth  knowing, 
And  as  I  take  my  march  along 
I'll  keep  that  tune  a-going. 

When  any  little  thing  occurs, 

My  cheerful  mind  to  ruffle, 
I  pause  a  moment  on  the  walk, 

And  cut  the  double-  shuffle ; 
And  then  I  strike  my  march  again, 

With  footstep  firmer,- prouder, 
And  whistle,  whistle  as  I  go, 

My  Yankee  Doodle  louder. 
Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 


250  OUR    BOSTON   YANKEE    DOODLE. 

I  love  to  see  the  people  stop, 

To  guess  what  I  am  doing ; 
They  don't  precisely  comprehend 

The  course  that  I'm  pursuing. 
But  let  them  pause  and  moralize, 

The  long- faced,  solemn  boodle! 
I  have  my  mission — and  it  is 

To  whistle  Yankee  Doodle. 
Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

At  times  I  take  along  some  flowers, 

To  please  the  pretty  misses  ; 
I  sell  them  cheap,  and  as  I  go, 

They  throw  me  their  sweet  kisses 
And  then  I  whistle,  whistle  on, 

With  step  elastic  bounding, 
And  over  all  the  din  you  hear 

My  Yankee  Doodle  sounding. 
Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

And  now  my  march  is  almost  done, 

And  almost  done  my  whistle, 
For  I  must  turn  to  sober  work — 

My  wax'd  end  and  my  bristle : 
As  I  behold  my  humble  shop, 

Each  moment  drawing  nearer, 
I  whistle,  like  a  dying  swan, 

My  Yankee  Doodle  clearer. 
Yankee  Poodle,  etc, 


CBINOUNE,  251 


CRINOLINE. 

OH,  grand  and  stately  Crinoline, 
How  wonderful  those  works  of  thine ! 
That  fellow  reached  a  wise  conclusion, 
Who  called  your  walls  "  an  institution  " 
In  which,  when  we  inclose  a  woman, 
We  cut  her  off  from  all  things  human, 
Shut  up,  like  nun  within  her  cell 
Away  from  earthly  snares  to  dwell. 

Oh,  haughty,  cruel  Crinoline ! 
How  you  abused  a  friend  of  mine ! 
A  straggling  coil  would  catch  and  twitch  her 
And  mine  the  duty  to  unhitch  her ; 
Nothing  could  manage  to  escape  her, 
She  pulled  at  every  chance  door- scraper, 
And  I,  the  while,  with  modest  cough, 
Kept  stooping  down  to  let  her  off. 

Oh,  hateful  tyrant,  Crinoline ! 

How  long  before  your  hideous  shrine 

Must  woman  bow  and  worship  ?     When 

Will  ye  release  her  from  your  ken  ? 

Why  need  she  longer  bob  about, 

Up  stairs  and  down,  in  doors  and  out, 

Like  turkey-cock,  with  full- spread  tail, 

Keeping  his  balance  in  a  gale  ? 


252  CHINA   AND   AMERICA. 

Pestering,  provoking  Crinoline, 
May  you  soon  reach  a  quick  decline ! 
We  sometimes  see  a  small  collapse, 
And  think  with  joy,  that  you,  perhaps, 
Have  almost  reached  that  final  door, 
Where  things  once  gone,  are  seen  no  more ; 
But  soon  comes  back  the  old  inflation, 
Your  name — it  is  Procrastination. 

Pompous  aud  puffy  Crinoline ! 

Just  please  to  die,  and  make  no  sign. 

Bring  to  an  end  your  empire  gloomy, 

And  streets  and  halls  will  seem  more  roomy. 

Enough,  enough  of  this  commodity ! 

Do  let  us  try  some  other  oddity ! 

Have  mercy  now  on  me  and  mine, 

Ugly,  ungainly  Crinoline ! 


CHINA  AND  AMERICA. 

THERE  is  a  land  whose  circuits  stretch  afar, 

From  Northern  snows  to  flaming  tropic  sun ; 
Whose  hours  are  long  from  dawn  of  morning  star, 

Until  its  far-off  western  day  is  done : 
Home  of  a  people,  whose  mysterious  birth 

Outdates  the  records  of  historic  time ; 
Standing  alone  amid  the  tribes  of  earth, 

Clad  in  the  glory  of  the  morning's  prime. 


TO    WHOM   IT   MAY  CONCERN.  253 

There  is  a  land  in  the  remotest  West, 

Opening  its  kindly  arms  from  sea  to  sea, 
To  gather  in  the  weary  and  oppressed, 

And  spread  for  them  the  banquet  of  the  free : 
Home  of  a  nation,  on  its  broad  estate, 

With  lordly  rivers,  hills  and  boundless  plains, 
Stretching  from  Eastern  shore  to  Golden  Gate, 

Where  no  man  hears  the  clank  of  tyrant  chains. 

The  children  of  the  West  and  of  the  East 

May  gather  here  around  one  kingly  head, 
To  share  the  blessings  of  that  gospel  feast, 

Which  Christ,  Messiah- King,  has  kindly  spread. 
It  marks  the  dawning  of  that  better  day, 

When  the  wild  noise  of  war  and  strife  shall  cease ; 
When  men  shall  cast  the  bloody  sword  away, 

And  bow  before  Immanuel,  Prince  of  Peace. 


TO  WHOM  IT  MAY  CONCERN. 

THERE  is  a  picture  of  an  ancient  saint, 

Bending  beneath  the  weary  weight  of  time, 

His  eye  is  dim,  his  accents  low  and  faint, 
But  on  his  brow  a  look  and  light  sublime. 

The  grateful  memories  rise  within  his  soul 
As  he  looks  back  along  the  pathway  trod, 

The  waves  of  thought  and  feeling  o'er  him  roll, 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff,  he  worships  God. 


254  TO    WHOM    IT    MAY    CONCERN. 

There  is  a  picture  of  a  younger  saint, 

Showing  his  sainthood  yet  upon  the  earth  ; 

Treading  his  toilsome  rounds  without  complaint, 
In  ways  of  wisdom  and  of  Christian  worth. 

He  is  encircled  by  the  sacred  seven, 

A  number  dear  to  Hebrew  bards  and  kings ; 

And  still  this  number  points  to  God  and  heaven, 
With  all  the  charm  its  magic  influence  brings. 

The  sacred  seven,  with  gladsome  hearts  and  free, 
Have  singled  out  this  fair  and  sturdy  grafF, 

Thinking  the  saint  might  walk  with  firmer  knee, 
And  worship  better,  leaning  on  a  staff. 

And  with  this  staff  long  may  he  walk  his  rounds, 

*  And  guide  the  churches  with  his  careful  eye, 

Till  earthly  life  has  reached  its  outmost  bounds, 

And  with  his  work  all  done,  he  bows  to  die. 

Then  through  the  valley  may  he  firmly  lean 
Upon  the  mighty  Shepherd's  staff  and  rod ; 

Till  the  fair  fields  beyond  the  flood  are  seen, 
And  the  tired  pilgrim  is  at  home  with  God. 


SUMMER    REST.  255 


SUMMER  REST. 

THE  dog-  star  now  ascends  the  throne, 

And  mortal  spirits  wither, 
So  leave  the  city's  sweltering  dust, 

And  haste  and  hie  thee  hither ; 
Amid  these  breezy  northern  woods 

The  mountain  brooks  are  straying ; 
Now  leaping  down  the  rocky  slopes, 

Now  in  soft  eddies  playing. 

This  is  the  hour  for  lazy  rest, 

So  put  all  care  behind  you, 
And  give  no  open  clue,  whereby, 

Your  enemies  can  find  you : 
Avoid  all  haunts  where  fashion  goes, 

To  show  her  costly  dresses, 
And  dwell  with  nature  in  her  wilds, 

To  share  her  kind  caresses. 

Here  light  and  shade,  in  airy  dance, 

Through  all  these  forest  ranges, 
Still  ply  their  net- work,  in  and  out, 

In  graceful  interchanges : 
No  magic  loom,  of  Eastern  tale, 

With  lightly  flying  shuttle, 
Could  weave  a  fairy  robe  like  this, 

So  delicate  and  subtle. 


256  SUMMER    REST. 

And  hark !  the  weird  Eolian  songs 

The  ancient  pines  are  singing, 
And  quaff  the  odors,  which  their  boughs 

On  summer  winds  are  flinging  : 
The  noisy  world  lies  far  away, 

Its  strifes,  its  plots,  its  schemings, 
Here  the  old  life  comes  back  again 

With  its  romantic  dreamings. 


Come  to  this  home  of  ancient  peace, 

To  these  pure  cooling  fountains, 
And  catch  the  simple  charms  that  dwell 

In  God's  uplifted  mountains  : 
Our  watch-towers  are  the  craggy  hills, 

The  summits  gray  and  hoary, 
What  time  the  summer  suns  go  down, 

Girt  round  with  cloudy  glory. 

But  hush!— from  out  the  leafy  depths 

A  pensive  song  is  stealing, 
The  song  the  shy  wood-robin  sings, 

Herself,  the  while,  concealing : 
If  you  would  hope  by  cunning  arts 

Her  secret  to  unravel, 
And  find  the  covert  where  she  hides, 

Gird  up  your  loins  for  travel. 

Come  seek  the  open  pasture  slopes, 
When  wind  and  sun  together, 

Attempered  each  to  each,  make  up 
The  harmony  of  weather ; 


DEATH   IN   OUR   HOME.  257 

Here  dream  the  hazy  hours  away, 
The  white  clouds  sailing  o'er  you, 

And  watch  the  shadows  in  the  vale 
Still  moving  on  before  you. 

And  when,  at  eve,  the  full- orbed  moon, 

With  step  august  and  queenly, 
Mounts  up  the  heavens,  and  from  her  height 

Looks  o'er  the  earth  serenely  ; 
The  sombre  majesty  of  hills, 

The  silence,  deep,  unbroken, 
Whisper  a  language  to  the  soul 

No  tongue  hath  ever  spoken. 


DEATH  IN  OUR  HOME. 

THE  year  draws  near  its  close,  and  on  our  dwelling 

The  Angel  Death  has  set  his  solemn  seal ; 
Through  gloomy  months  the  heralds  were  foretelling 

That  direful  stroke  which  art  nor  time  can  heal : 
Our  house  before  knew  not  the  pains  of  dying, 

Departing  pilgrims  yielding  up  their  breath, 
The  last  farewells,  the  sharp  and  bitter  cryings, 

That  darkly  cluster  round  the  bed  of  death. 

For  thrice  ten  years  of  time's  progressive  ranges, 
Since  the  foundations  of  the  house  were  laid ; 

From  year  to  year,  through  all  life's  lesser  changes, 
The  waves  of  sunshine  have  around  it  played : 
17 


258  DEATH    IN   OUR    HOME. 

Voices  of  little  children  gaily  ringing, 

Whose  nimble  feet  were  pattering  through  the  halls 
The  coming  in  of  friends,  sweet  converse  bringing, 

When  unto  rest  the  evening  shadow  calls. 


Once  and  again  the  marriage  bell  has  sounded 

Its  gladsome  peal  to  call  the  wedding  guest, 
And  through  the  house,  mirth  and  good  cheer  abounded, 

All  for  the  charm  of  a  new  household  nest : 
The  light  of  Spring,  the  Autumn's  golden  glory, 

Have  come  and  gone  in  time's  unceasing  flow ; 
The  fireside  joys,  when  winter  wild  and  hoary 

Has  clad  the  earth  in  robes  of  ice  and  snow. 

But  now  stern  Death,  with  consecrating  finger, 

Has  lent  our  home  a  strange  and  solemn  grace. 
Through  all  its  chambers  holy  memories  linger, 

Memories  which  death  alone  can  e'er  efface: 
We  list  in  vain  for  wife  and  mother  treading 

Her  round  of  care  and  kindness  day  by  day ; 
We  miss  her  eye  of  light  and  brightness  shedding 

Courage  to  bear  the  burdens  of  the  way. 

Henceforth  the  stores  of  memory  shall  be  dearer, 

Touched  with  a  tenderness  unknown  before, 
Henceforth  the  unseen  world  be  clearer,  nearer, 

Nearer  the  pilgrims  on  the  other  shore  : 
And  though  clouds  drift  across  our  hours  of  gladness 

And  lend  our  earthly  joys  a  sober  hue, 
Yet  life  is  deeper  for  this  shade  of  sadness, 

And  heaven  has  caught  a  glory  fresh  and  new. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 


M191909 


JS 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


